A Fortnight
by Phantomphaeton
Summary: I'm ashamed. After all my care and caution, it only took a fortnight.
1. Chapter 1

_**Ambriella**_

My father's last word had been '_eighteen_'. When he left for that trip and never returned, that's what they told me. Lucia Tremaine didn't understand it. Drisella didn't understand it. Anastasia didn't understand it. To be honest with you, a great many things often escaped their understanding. But not many things typically escaped _mine_, so when I heard the word '_eighteen_', and couldn't understand it, my first rational thought was that it had been the fever that took him.

And then I heard it again. It hadn't been madness. '_Eighteen_' had not been the delirium of fever. '_Eighteen_' had been my only hope.

.`.

"Eighteen," said Mr. Coatsworth the first time Lucia slapped me.

It had been shocking. My parents had _never_ hit me. And the sting across my cheek had been enough to make my eyes tear up and my face burn for hours.

Mr. Coatsworth hadn't seen the mark on my face—I'd thrown on some flour and pretended I was baking. But let it not be said that estate managers are imperceptive people.

"Eighteen?" I repeated. "What about it?"

"Your eighteenth birthday," he said. "That's when you can do as you please with them. All of them."

"Father never left a will—"

"He didn't need to," said Mr. Coatsworth. "The terms of inheritance of House Allandale state that if you are unmarried and still living in this house by your eighteenth birthday, then the property and the fortune will pass onto you. If you stay here and wait that time out, then these women will—in nine years' time—be at your mercy. _Think_ on this, child. All that is wrong will be right. But you _must_ be patient."

At the time, nine years had seemed so short. It's always seems so easy when you're just talking about it.

"Nine years," I repeated. "I can do it."

"Do _not_ tell the Tremaine woman," Mr. Coatsworth said to me. "Do _not_ tell a single living soul. If word gets back to her about the rules of inheritance, she will wed you off at the first opportunity. An Allandale must always own Royce Manor."

"I will not," I promised him.

One year later, Mr. Coatsworth died of pneumonia. A lifelong friend and loyal servant of House Allandale—and my last ally—gone from the world. And thus began my descent.

_**8 ¾ Years Later**_

'_You are cordially invited to attend the festivities of His Highness King Alexander on the nights of April 8__th__ to 22__nd__ to celebrate the birth of the Honorable 3__rd__ Duke of Burlington.'_

This is not the sort of thing that you hide in the loose floorboard under your bed. But because I'm me, I couldn't resist. Yes, yes, I'm fully aware of what the penalty for something like this is. A whipping. A right and proper whipping. But I just couldn't hold it in. I just want to see them squirm a bit.

Ambriella is small. Ambriella is weak. Ambriella is insipid and stupid and dull and harmless—too harmless to do something this sneaky and conniving. No one would ever suspect _her_. I suppose that's the reason why I should keep it. Because I'm small and weak and insipid and stupid and dull and harmless and no one would ever suspect me.

Downstairs, they're breakfasting to the cheery sounds of tears and Anastasia's agonized gasping. It gets worse and worse every day. I suppose today is as good a day as any to give it to them. The eighth of April is nearing. If they're going to be ready, then they'll need time to prepare. Ideally, I'd love to burn the invitation. I'd love to see their miserable faces when the eighth of April arrives and everyone they know goes to the palace and they have to face the shame and misery of not being invited. I'd have to put more work into pretending that such a sight wouldn't fill the empty void in my heart than I've put into anything I've ever done before. I don't know if I'm that good a liar.

I've already resealed the thing. All the same, I double check it for any signs of tampering before I head downstairs. My old room is now used as a dressing room. They relocated me to the room the farthest upstairs years ago. It's not bad, just that it's big and I don't have much to fill it with, so it gets a bit empty. During the spring and summer I fill it with flowers. It ends up looking the nicest. But during the winter months it almost sets in the new ice age since there's no fireplace. I removed some of the decorative stone from the wall beside my bed and now when it gets cold I just stuff it with dry hay and light it. It's a functional solution and probably would have been perfect, except the cinders always get onto my face. It gave Drisella one of her rare (and I mean _rare_)strokes of genius the first time they saw it.

"Cinderella!" she had shrieked with excitement, doubling over laughing like it was the best thing since honey roasted peanuts.

Shallow as pigeon shit.

Fuck it. My fingers are bleeding again. Lucia downgraded to this cleaning agent a few years back that works like a charm when you're scrubbing the floors, but it's unnaturally harsh on the skin. During the dry winter months, my fingers crack and bleed at the slightest provocation. It's less prominent during the spring and summer, but exertion is usually what does it. There's a salve I make from the stuff in the garden that puts a stopper on it, and now I mostly work with gloves.

Two more months. Two more months. Two more months.

The breakfast room is my favorite part of the house. I don't care what Lucia's presence has done to stain the memories I have here. The sunlight peeks in through three walls of windows. Drisella hates being in here in the early mornings because it's too bright and her routine drinking doesn't agree with it. I don't think Lucia even notices her hangovers. Just goes to show you what sort of family I'm dealing with.

Lucia is sucking on the end of a long pipe. The smoke is light and fragrant. I don't mind that she smokes in here. It's a nice scent. But she's distressed, so I just sink into a curtsey and pick up the empty plates, setting them aside.

"We'll be the laughingstock of Amonta," Anastasia laments. Her voice is muffled because her head is buried in her arms on the table. It's thick and heavy. She's in tears.

"We could steal Alexandria Hildegard's," Drisella suggests.

She's not in tears like Anastasia. Her brows are knit together closely in frustration. Lucia doesn't say anything. She just rests her chin on her hands and stares resolutely ahead. I fill her cup with milk wordlessly.

"They'll all be married by the end of the month," Anastasia's voice says. "And we'll die old maids!" A fresh peal of sobs escapes her.

No response from Lucia. Drisella stabs an egg with ferocity. I'm surprised she didn't crack the dish. Careful with the china, butterfingers. That thing is worth more than you are.

"I'll not die an old maid," Drisella says. "I _refuse_ to die an old maid."

"Neither of you will die old maids," Lucia says. "You're far too pretty for that fate. Even Ambriella will someday wed. If she can, then by God, why can't you?"

Not that you'll ever get to see that—on the off chance that it ever happens. In two months' time I'm going to shove my foot so far into your crusty asshole that my toes will tickle your brain.

"All those other girls get to go," Anastasia is whining again. "We'll be holed up in here and all the _good _husbands will gone!"

Well, Ambriella—better late than never. If I'm going to give it to them, it had better be now.

"Good morning, Mother," I say quietly. "A letter arrived for you this morning."

I unearth the letter from my pocket and hold it out to her. Anastasia raises her head. Her face is blotchy and tearstained and her nose is bright red. I never thought it was humanly possible for anyone to look this bad.

"An invitation?" Drisella asks as Lucia takes the letter from my hands and pries it open.

"It appears so," Lucia says, reading through it. A smile breaks across her features. For a moment, she's almost the smallest smidge less of a snake than usual. "I knew it had to be some sort of misunderstanding."

Drisella and Anastasia are quiet. "Praise the Lord," Anastasia whispers. "We are saved."

And I have to move aside before they run me over as they waltz around the table together.

"Did this just come in, Ambriella?" Lucia asks.

"I only just came in from the garden and found it in the post box," I lie.

"It must have been delayed in the post," Lucia says. "Of course we'd be invited. Oh, we must head to town _immediately_. Ambriella, run ahead of us and schedule an appointment with the tailor, will you? We'll be along soon. Meet us at the jeweler's."

"Yes, Mother," I say, gathering the empty dishes. Drisella's muddy brown eyes are on me.

"Save those macaroons for me, Cinderella. I'll have them later this afternoon."

"Yes, Drisella," I say.

She doesn't want them, the macaroons. She just wants to ensure that _I _don't get to eat them. Well, honey, you can _have_ them. I've learned over the years from your steadily expanding ass what happens to people who Spite Eat as a hobby.

"On second thought—take them with you into town. I'll get hungry while we're shopping."

"Yes, Drisella."

Die, bitch.

Amonta town is a small one, not very significant. It's pretty, though. Cobblestone streets and flowers everywhere. And it's the closest town to the palace. You can see the tops of the towers from the town square. People come through here all the time, strangers coming to see the palace, traders from foreign lands coming to sell to royalty and nobility. We get all kinds of new faces here.

Buxton's Tailor is the finest one in town. People say that the queen once commissioned Master Buxton for a gown. Of course, no one has any proof since she bit the cheese twenty years ago and the only time anyone ever heard about it was from Master Buxton himself. He hates Drisella and Anastasia more than I do, if that's possible. They stimulate his suicidal urges almost as much as the pain they inflict on me. So when I tell him they're coming, I'm careful to do it with an appropriately solemn expression. I'm suddenly feeling really bad for having held onto the letter for so long. The first of the balls is only a week away and he doesn't have much time to be working on fourteen gowns for two girls—well, technically seven gowns. Drisella might have to consider wearing a tent because I doubt anything else will fit her at the rate she's going.

Now, now, I know it's not right to go poking her for being the size of a humpback whale. And in truth, I would not typically mind her being the size of a humpback whale. But do you have the slightest idea how difficult it is to press a gown that could fit a humpback whale? To wash one? To tie a corset? Do you have the slightest idea what her fin—I mean _hand_—feels like every time she lands it on my cheek?

Once I've given Master Buxton the news, I leave him to pen his will and testament and make for the jeweler's. I've got the macaroons in the basket dangling from my arm. I half debated for a while about spreading boar fat in them, but then it occurred to me that that sort of thing would only make my life _that _much harder. So no boar fat.

It's when I'm turning the corner that I bump into a boy. Normally bumping into someone wouldn't do any harm, but I lose too much weight during the winters and I'm only just putting the pounds back on. So I end up nearly falling over.

"I'm so sorry, Miss," says the little boy as he reaches his skinny hand out to steady my arm. "I'm so sorry! I'm hardly watching where I'm going these days—"

Jesus, kid, I'm not gonna eat you.

"It's fine," I say, shaking my head. "It's fine. Hey—don't I _know_ you from somewhere?"

"Miss…Ambriella?" he nods. "I'm…the chimney boy."

Fuck. That's the kinda thing you remember. I guess he expected me to remember. I don't recognize his face since usually when I see it it's covered in soot, but I guess if I squint I can recognize his skinny legs that stick out of the fireplace as he scrubs the inside of the chimney. Edmund, is it? Or Edwin?

"That's right," I say. "I remember. It's just…you look so different."

Well, everyone's always a little cleaner on Sunday. Even I get to dress nicely—well, nicer than usual.

"You're headed to the jewelers' are you?" he asks. "To prepare for the ball?"

"I'm not actually going to the ball," I say.

"Why not?" he asks. "Did you not get invited?"

"Well…I did, actually."

"Then you must go. Everyone is going."

"Are you going?"

"I meant every maiden."

"Well, maybe I will," I say, smiling at him. "Have a good day…dear."

Dodged a bullet there. Can't understand why I can't recall his name. I'm usually great with names. Or at least calling people names.

Lucia and the girls are poring over necklaces when I reach them. I hand Drisella the basket of macaroons and watch her stuff her cheeks with a satisfied expression.

"Master Buxton expects you within the hour," I say to Lucia. "He has a very busy day today, so you mustn't be late."

If Master Buxton hasn't blown his head off already.

"Right. Of course he's swamped with work," Lucia nods, her eyes still on this string of pearls. "I'll take three of these," she says to the jeweler.

"Oh, Mother—" I'm sort of taken aback at this gesture. "I'm not sure that one will fit me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The…the necklace," I say, tilting my chin to the string of pearls.

"You…" her brow furrows. She smiles. "You seriously think I was getting this for you?"

"You asked for three," I say. "Anastasia, Drisella, and myself."

"No, darling," she says, taking my hands in hers and rubbing them carefully. "Anastasia, Drisella and _myself_."

Oh, shit. I can feel it coming.

"I…see," I say, nodding. "I understand, Mother."

Don't say it, woman. Don't say it. I am a spiteful machine and I will want it _only _if you say that I cannot have it. I am perfectly happy to skip the royal balls of my own accord. If you tell me to stay put, the likelihood of my staying put will drop down to zero. Do not do this to us.

"You are not to go to the balls," she says.

Shit.

"Yes, Mother."

I have _got_ to go to those balls.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Prince Rainier**_

**Week One. Day One.**

I once walked through the deserts of Africa in the summer sun with no water on hand. Everywhere I looked, there was nothing but the red sand, too hot to walk on—even the snakes slithered carefully so the sand touched the smallest amount of their bodies at a time as possible. The birds flying overhead flew quickly, to put as much distance between themselves and that great valley of death as they could. What a morning that was! I nearly died that day. It wasn't until my valet Ivan found me half dead on the ground that I awakened from the brink of death.

No. I've never walked through the deserts of Africa in the summer sun with no water on hand. But I once had a Bolbec induced hangover, and that's sort of the same thing.

I'm a very attentive person. I'm famous for good judgment. So of course I know if someone's boring when my mind has wondered to my Bolbec hangover—a morning so horrible and traumatizing that I told God I'd never think of it again.

My Bolbec hangover came about on the morning after a ball like this, actually. Who on earth would dare to awaken that memory from the crypt I had long since buried it in? I look down at the guilty party. A young woman. That's odd. I never get bored of hearing women talk. I never get bored of women, period. They're so bloody magical.

Personally, I've always believed women to be one of God's greater creations. Cleavage, a lively giggle and a pretty smile have nothing to do with it. Really. Men annoy me. They bore me. Women always seem to be having so much more fun. Have you ever been in a position where you're stuck with the most insipid company of people, and then suddenly your eyes land upon the throng of fellows who seem to be enjoying every moment of their lives? Well, for me, it's always been the ladies. Their _life_ is contagious, their cheer infectious, their beauty and perfection placing them above all other creatures in the world. I've never been upset in the company of a woman—whether she's laughing with me, walking with me, or climbing on top of me—no woman has ever truly bored me before. But it's not until I see a new, strange face across the ballroom that I realize no woman has ever _captivated_ me before, either.

The girl is tired, I can see that on her face. Her eyes are on the floor as she leans against the wall with champagne in her hand. People laugh and dance and pass her by, but she doesn't even notice them. I can't explain what it is about her that seems to draw my step towards her. She has this..._air _about her. But there's nothing special about her individual traits. Dark brown hair. I've seen it before. Pale skin dotted with beauty marks. I've seen that, too. In fact I saw it in my chambers last night. She's not too tall. But somehow, on this girl…it's mesmerizing. I can't put a finger on what it is—not until a pair of eyes snap up and meet mine. Her eyes floor me. They glitter. Like the facets of diamonds. Slate and stormy gray, dazzling and twinkling enticingly in the light. I don't know what to do. I've been caught staring—hardly attractive. She looks ready to take flight if I come any closer. Our eyes lock. She's still as long as I stay put, I stay put as long as she's still.

So…what now?

I lower my gaze for a moment. Not backing down—asking permission. Please let me get close enough to hear your voice. Please let me get close enough to hear your laugh. Please let me get close enough to see your smile.

I look back up. Her eyes have never left me. She gives—in the candlelight—the smallest of smiles, and then I blink. When I open my eyes, she is gone.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Ambriella**_

**Week One. Day Two.**

Going to the ball was a stupid idea. But dammit, she gave me no choice. You know how some people get irritated when people tell them to do things they were already going to do? Well, for me it comes with a twist. I have done very difficult things that have been terribly inconvenient for me—things I did not plan on doing—simply because Lucia forbade them. Like painting my room pastel peach. Or growing pumpkins in the garden. Or wearing violet perfume. I hate pastel peach. The color offends my eyes. I don't even eat pumpkins. They're my least favorite type of squash. The scent of violets makes me nauseous. But I have overcome all of these terrible inconveniences simply because they irk her.

This, however, would have to be the greatest inconvenience to me ever. I've outdone myself.

So going to the ball was no real challenge. Getting a carriage to take me was a bit of a pickle. There is a man, Arthur Blake, who drives coach for Master Buxton in town. Most of the people who attend the ball go with the intention of staying until the end of the party—nearly sunrise. Master Buxton's dislike of my step-sisters—and the fact that I have to live with them while he only deals with them a few times a month—compelled him to allow me to use his coach provided I have it back before midnight to return to the palace and collect Master Buxton's daughter Talia, who also attends the ball but—unlike me—stays until sunrise. It's a good deal. And not to mention that if I get home as early as midnight, then I get the chance to clean something up or bake something to give Lucia and the girls the impression that I'd been home all night.

The next big hurdle was finding a gown. None of my Sunday dresses would do at a royal ball. Master Buxton came in handy here. Our mutual hatred of Drisella and Anastasia can only take me so far with him, after all. He deals in trade with the outlanders who come pouring into the town every few months, bringing with them fabrics and jewels and perfumes and strange and beautiful things. All I have to do is present him with some collateral to hold onto while I rent one of the exquisite gowns he has made. I used an old ring last time—my mother's. It's an old thing, true, but like most things owned by House Allendale, it's worth quite a bit of money. Last night I traded the ring for a gown made of dark blue gossamer. It moved so fluidly and beautifully that I didn't actually feel like I was really inconveniencing myself by being there—at that pointless ball—wearing it. He gave me back the ring when Arthur dropped me off and now the whole thing has gone so smoothly that I'm wondering if maybe I should go back.

Maybe I should. I mean…it was all just too easy. I wasn't planning on going to any more. Just one would have been enough for me. But it's just so simple. How hard would it be to arrange it all again? And how satisfying it would be to me to know that—despite Lucia's warning—I had attended not just one, but multiple balls?

Haha, bitch. I'm going for the gold. Go big or go home, right?

But not tonight. Tonight I have to clean the hearth. Anastasia saw fit to tip candle wax all over the thing and now I have to scrape it off.

Two more months. Two more months. Two more months. Two more months. Two more months.

Technically, less than two months. A little over a month and a half, actually. See how far you've made it, Ambriella? All of that will be undone if you get thrown in prison for strangling Anastasia with a cheese wire. And her boney ass is not worth your life in the slammer.

"Where's the coachman?" asks Drisella as Anastasia spins around in the foyer. They're all dressed and ready to go. "We're going to be late!"

"He'll be here soon," Lucia says, staring out the window. "Anastasia, stop spinning about. You'll make yourself dizzy or tear your gown on somethi—"

Spoke too soon. She didn't even finish talking before Anastasia bumped into the china cabinet. We all pause at the sound of the crash inside.

Absolutely positively hell fucking no. Do not tell me that your clumsy ass just knocked over something in that china cabinet. You did not just break something from my mother's china collection. Do you have any clue how old that stuff is? Or how much it's worth? I'll give you a hint—your hideous dress would have to be sold and resold maybe fifty or sixty times over—_with you in it_—to pay for whatever you just broke. This collection was precious to Mother. It goes back to the days when House Allendale was still politically relevant.

"Cinderella, take care of that," Drisella says, waving it off. "The coach is here, look!"

"Excellent. Hurry, girls! We mustn't be late!"

Lucia rushes them out the door, leaving me to mad dash to the cabinet as soon as the door has closed behind them. I pull open the doors and take a peek inside. Let's see what the damage is, shall we?

Oh my God. I am going to _skin_ that boney fucking trout.

I don't think that Anastasia could tip the scale at a hundred and twenty pounds on a good day. But by some miracle (disaster) she has managed to break three bowls and a tea cup. Well, in a month and a half when they're working for me, I'm gonna pimp her out to pay for it. Let's hope that there's some blind, deaf, old rich guy somewhere in the kingdom with standards _below ground_ who'd be willing to pay me to let him sleep with her. Or maybe I'm just reaching for the stars here. So maybe I could sell her hair or something. How much would it be worth? Not enough to pay for this—that much is certain. So I'll sell her hair, and then I'll yank out each of her teeth and use that to make up for the deficit. I grit my teeth together and reach into the cabinet to pick up the broken pieces. Ouch. Should have lit a candle before I did that. I think I just sliced my palm. I pull my hand out quickly and look at it. Lovely. Dripping blood all over the floor. At least floor-waxing day isn't until Tuesday.

So my fingers have been bleeding harder than usual as well. My hands are in rotten shape. I can't find my gloves, okay? Drisella might have hidden them. Normally, I'd have shoved a severed fish head into her mattress—that's my usual response to her when she annoys me. Well—that or spitting into her soup. But with the magical number eighteen on the horizon, I've kinda been doing my best to float under the radar. Withholding the letter was my last intended act of sabotage/defiance. But this whole ball thing had to come along and God only knows I have a hard time obeying them.

Two weeks home alone was something I had been looking forward to. I don't know who to damn now—Lucia for forbidding me (and making attendance a vital need) or myself for being unable to live without defying her?

So I'll go back tomorrow. Maybe if it goes just as smoothly as yesterday night, then I'll consider going again. But I don't want to make this a habit. The balls only last a fortnight, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Prince Rainier**_

**Week One. Day Three.**

Let me be very clear about something here: I do not believe in love at first sight. I never have. It's a stupid trick of the mind. I do, however, believe that sometimes certain people can see certain things in certain other people who draw them in, like whatever it is that I see in this girl.

I kept my eyes peeled yesterday, but I swear she wasn't here. It wasn't easy, alright? I went maybe four hours without pausing to check my reflection in a single mirror. I've never gone that long without checking my hair before.

I had thought, after a while, that maybe I'd imagined her, that she was just some trick my brain had pulled on me because I'd been so bored stiff by that other girl. It takes _real_ boredom to bring back the Black Morning—the Bolbec hangover.

But now we're rotating partners and here she is, spinning around with me, and her touch is real. I squeeze her gloved hand and her eyes are sparkling. I swear she's real.

"I've seen you before," I say.

She nods. "Hello, stranger," she says.

"Were you not here yesterday night?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Are you—are you real?" I ask. Stupid question. But it just doesn't seem so. Something about her is just so…strange.

"I certainly hope so," she says.

"What is your name—?"

But the rotation has taken her away from me, and I'm left at the mercy of another girl.

Throughout the night, I can still feel the fabric of her glove on my hand, I can still smell her perfume distantly. What is it about the way that she carries herself that makes her so odd? There's something that seems so…melancholy about her. Some great and distant storm brews in her mind somewhere. Her eyes look like they've seen a thousand years, but she can't even be twenty. There's an old soul within her, sealed shut from view by eyes the color and hardness of diamond. I feel oddly eclipsed by the mere shadow of her memory. I know when I'm looking at a gem. And this girl is a gem. She's a diamond.

Now this is an interesting situation. I can only remember two or three women who have ever caught my attention this way. I'm eager to add another to the collection. But in both of those instances I had been in great danger of falling in love. Perhaps I ought to stay away.

But I am Prince Rainier Edmund of House Harrington. I am the charming, sweet, well-mannered, considerate, extraordinarily handsome prince—with perfectly _flawless_ hair if I do say so myself. I've dealt with ambassadors and foolish foreign royalty and politics. I think I can manage _one_ girl—no matter how much she reminds me of a hurricane.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Ambriella**_

**Week One. Day Four.**

I think my fingers are going to fall off. I've said this to myself a million times, but I really mean it this time. They might actually come off.

Here I am peeling a mountain of potatoes for next week's supper. If there's anything Drisella loves more than making me suicidal at every turn, it's baked potatoes. She eats them every night without fail. For nine years. Ten people on staff here at Royce Manor—a cook, a groundskeeper, four maids, two butlers, a stable boy, and the valet—and they still insist upon my handling of everything. It's to break me. They just want to see me struggle. Fine, then. I'll struggle. It'll only make it that much worse when I rip your hair out.

I'm not going to the ball tonight. Though it'd be fun, there's just too much work to do tonight. I'm going to peel Lucia's face off with this peeler in two months' time.

"I hate this color," Anastasia says to herself. Tears are gathering in her eyes from her frustration. "Ambriella, how could you let me choose this color?"

Sorry your nail enamel makes your hands look like you dipped them in cat shit. Not my fault you're half colorblind.

"I wasn't there, Anastasia," I remind her. Fucking fruit cake.

"It's too late to take it off now," Lucia says. "The coachman is here. Don't leave on the porch light, girl. We won't be back until after sunrise."

"Yes, mother."

And the door is closed behind them, leaving me to my thoughts.

So last night was just as smooth as the first. Dancing is hardly the best way to pass the time at a ball. If anything, it's a great way to work up a sweat. But now that winter is over, I'm trying to reduce my resemblance to a skeleton here. So I promised myself that I'd only dance one or two. But I ended up getting asked for a turn by three different guys and I have no clue how to refuse without looking like I have a stick shoved up my asshole and tickling my brain. It's a party, after all. So I danced. And it was fun. And the whole arrangement with the carriage and Master Buxton's midnight curfew worked out alright. So going back is definitely going to happen. But I still have appearances to keep up here. Lucia will get the drift that something is wrong if Royce Manor starts to look like a jungle. So maybe I can continue in this pattern. Go one day, skip the next. It could work.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Prince Rainier**_

**Week One. Day Five.**

The girl of interest didn't turn up yesterday. I half got to thinking that she isn't real again, but there she is now. Champagne in her hand. Glitter in her eyes. She's a puzzle. I check my reflection in my champagne flute. My hair's fine. Of course. I haven't moved an inch all day.

"I'd go with Vanilla if I were you," I say, handing her a tall flute. "That one you're drinking is quite ghastly."

She smiles and accepts the flute from my hand. "Between you and I," she says. "I've always thought that the world must be in on some practical joke to convince me that champagne tastes good."

"You don't think it does?" I ask her.

"I think it's too sweet," she says. She pauses and smiles at me. It's a dim, faded smile that seems to echo back to years of golden days past. "It's certainly a pleasure to see you again, Stranger."

"I've seen very little of you here," I point out.

"I'm on a tight schedule. Congratulations," she adds. "On the new addition to your family. You must be thrilled."

"I am. My uncle has waited a great many years for this child."

Take a step, Rainier. It's a tried and true method to settle into a lady's company. If she falls into step beside me, then I have her company for as long as we walk. If she does not, then I need to find some way to keep the conversation going or I'll lose her, and I am desperate to know the story behind the diamond eyes. I take a step. She follows suit. My chest feels awfully light all of a sudden.

Perfect. Now you have a moment to gather yourself and think of a way to keep her attention. I'm about to pull together a compliment, but she saves me the trouble.

"I can't understand it," she says, looking around at the ballroom. "All this pomp and grandeur…for a baby."

"This is no ordinary baby," I say. "This is the Duke of Burlington. One day, he will be the heir to the Silverlands and Shores."

She seems put out. "What a burden for a child to bear," she says. "Where is this lord of Silverlands and Shores now?"

"Sound asleep in his cradle," I tell her.

It _is_ sort of stupid, now she brings it up. Why two weeks? It's not as though he'll remember it. And from the rate that the wine is disappearing, I doubt _anyone_ will remember much about this fortnight.

"Blissfully unaware of the world celebrating him," she says to herself. "How unlucky he is."

"I don't think too many people here will agree with you," I say.

"Of course they won't," she says. "They are with drink and music and excellent company. There's no reason for them to be seeing the misery in all this."

"He will be much older when he assumes the responsibilities for those lands," I tell her. "Too old to care about burdens and responsibility by that point. Perhaps too old to mind the misery."

"Perhaps. So then this fortnight must be repeated in twenty five years. So that he may enjoy an hour or two in the sun before his torment begins."

"I suppose we must repeat the fortnight, then. Will you come again if we do?"

"If I'm still alive in twenty five years, then I shall," she assures me. She raises her glass in a salute. "To celebrate happiness in misery."

"Happiness doesn't exist within misery," I say.

"I haven't always found that to be true," she says. "They are not incompatible, you know."

"I think they are," I say. "How can you be both? You are either happy or miserable."

"Only a select few of us can find happiness in misery," she says.

Unfortunately, that's all she's tempted to say to me. She drains her glass and glances at the clock.

"I ought to be going now," she says.

"It's barely midnight," I tell her. "The ball's only just begun."

"Not for me," she says. "I'm terribly sorry. It was nice to have met you, my prince. Farewell."

She dips into a curtsey and turns away. I watch her go, but it's only when she's gone that I realize I didn't ask for her name.

At least my hair looks good.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Ambriella**_

**Week One. Day Six. **

I was half tempted to go back to the ball tonight. Some tingling of excitement in the back of my mind lingers from last night. I can't believe that I spoke to the prince. If I had known it was him who had been watching me on that first day, who had danced with me later…I probably would have put in the effort to be politer. But he was…nice. It's weird, to say the least. Nice people aren't easy to find much anymore. It seems that the closer I get to the date of my liberation, the meaner and meaner the world around me gets. How could a prince of all people be so...sweet? I hadn't imagined he'd be like that. I had imagined a skinny, spoiled little inbred brat. Suffice it to say I was pleasantly surprised. Not enough to go back again tonight. Only enough to make me consider it.

The chimney boy (whose name turns out to be Edward) is hard at work. I can see his skinny little legs from the fireplace, the fabric of his trousers covered in cinders and ashes. He came in shortly before Lucia and the girls took off for tonight's ball and he's been scrubbing up there ever since. It's only when I hear a dull 'thud' from the space that I even look in his direction.

"Are you alright up there?" I ask him through the brick.

"I've cut my hand!" I hear him say.

"Come out here and I'll have a look at it," I say, tugging the fabric of his trousers.

He emerges in a puff of ash. I cough and fan it away from my face. The tears streaming down his face leave clean lines of pale skin visible underneath the gray and black ashes. Poor thing.

"Let me see it," I say, pulling his arm towards me and opening his hand. It's not too deep, but it's bleeding and it's ugly. "Oh, come with me, love. Let's get that patched up."

I take him to the kitchen, where I sit him down at the little table where I take my meals. I can boil some water to use on his hand, and then maybe some of my finger salve could help as well. His hands are so tiny. He whimpers as I dab at the cut.

"There, there my dear," I smile at him reassuringly. "Tell me, how old are you?"

"Eleven, ma'am," he says.

I frown. "Do you get injured like this often?"

"Every now and again," he says, determinedly wiping away his tears. "Occupational hazard."

"Do your parents know of these occupational hazards?"

"I suppose my Dad did," Edward says.

"Did?"

"Before he died last year."

Oh.

"I see. And your mother?"

"The year before."

Now doesn't this sound familiar?

"So where do you live now?"

"11 Pullings Lane, ma'am."

"Edward?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"11 Pullings Lane is the clock tower in the square."

"That's where I live. The clock keeper lets me stay as long as I clean the gears."

I could die. My bones seem to shake at the idea of this boy's skinny fingers being caught and crushed in the enormous gears of those things.

"My parents are dead, too," I tell him.

"But you don't live in a clock tower."

"No, I don't. I live here."

"When did Lady Allendale hire you?"

"She didn't," I say. "I've always lived here. She only arrived ten years ago."

"But then…you are an Allendale?"

"I'm the only blood-born Allendale at Royce Manor. Those daughters of Lady Allendale's are not my father's children, but her own from a previous marriage."

"If that is so, then why do you work as her maid?"

"Because…the world is sometimes cruel to people like you and I," I say to him. I've dabbed on the salve, but I forgot to get something to wrap it with. I reach into my hair and pull loose the ribbon I have tying it together. I wrap his hand up and pat it delicately. "There we go. How about some cherry tart? Would you like that? I baked it just this afternoon."

Edward wins my heart around the time I watch him snarf down this tart like he's never had one in his life. My God. Poor child. I give him a few more in a basket to take with him along with his pay.

"But I haven't finished cleaning the chimney yet," he says, refusing the money.

"I'll not hear of you working with that hand of yours," I say, pushing the money into his pocket. "Go to a doctor and get it properly treated and then you can come back another day. The chimney isn't going anywhere."

"But the filth will pile up."

"No matter," I say. "I'll clean it this week. You just come back when you're good and ready, alright?"

He sighs, taking the basket. "Goodnight, Miss Ambriella."

"Goodnight, Edward," I pat his cheek and watch him move through the front gardens. He disappears quickly in the dark.

I wait until he's gone, then I close the door and turn to face the half cleaned fireplace. Oh, joy. Won't _this_ be fun?


	8. Chapter 8

_** Prince Rainier**_

**Week One. Day Seven.**

I find her just as she's slipping out the back doors, heading into the gardens. She doesn't like people. Or being around too many. She sticks to the shadows, the corners, emerging only when given no other option. There's something oddly elusive about her.

"You're not very good with balls," I guess when I catch up with her.

"Not terribly," she says, sinking into a curtsey. I don't like it when she does it. I don't usually mind it with anyone else. But with her it's unsettling.

"Is it the people or the music?" I ask.

"A fair bit of both, I suppose," she says. "The music is too thoughtless."

"Thoughtless?"

"Indeed. It's not to say that I think it's bad music. It's nice music. But I just don't really have a taste for music that doesn't make anyone stop and think."

"Do you play any?"

"I did," she says, pausing to touch a gloved finger to a flower. "Once."

"Only once?"

"I didn't say only once, I said '_once_'."

"What did you play?"

"The piano. I used to write music with my moth…" She trails off slowly. Her brows furrow slightly and her gaze falls on the ground. She blinks a few times, gives me a tight smile, and keeps walking.

"And the people?" I urge. Mental note, Rainier: mother is a sore subject.

"Well, I don't really spend much of my time surrounded by so many strange people," she tells me. "I thought I could handle it at first, but I suppose after a while you just start to drift towards anywhere you can get some quiet."

She seems unsettled. But only since the word 'mother' almost passed her lips. What about that could have shaken her? Perhaps a recent death? It hardly matters now. All that does matter is that she was melting, just now. Those diamonds were cracking, and now she's been called to attention she's gone and pulled them back into place. I have to start over.

We slow our pace as we reach the rose bushes.

"My mother loved roses," I tell her. "She was heartbroken when she first arrived at the palace and found that there were none here."

"There were no roses in the palace?" she asks. "I'd have thought…they're so common."

"She wasn't terribly fond of the type that was already growing. So my father had these planted for her as a wedding gift. They're a better sort of flower."

"They're certainly bigger," she says. "I can see why she'd like them."

"She adored them," I say. "She adopted one as her personal sigil. She used it as her seal for everything."

"Red ones?" she asks. "Or these white ones?"

"Whichever ones she fancied at the time. Her tastes changed with her moods. One day she wanted the red, another day she'd have the white, another she'd have the pink, another the orange."

I reach into the bush and pick her the biggest one. She smiles and accepts it.

"What a good way to convey a mood without speaking a word," she says. "The colors could communicate for her."

"Communicate?"

"The flower language," she says. "Each flower means something specific. Her sigil was the rose, which means that she valued love and respect above all else."

"And if you could choose one as your sigil, which would you choose?" I ask as we walk ahead. We pause by a carnation bush. "Carnations, perhaps?" I ask, picking one and handing it to her.

"Carnations mean pride and beauty," she says, taking the flower. "It would hardly suit me."

"Lilies, perhaps?" I ask, picking one loose and holding it out to her.

"Magnificence," she says. "Which I can hardly compare to."

"The chrysanthemum, then," I suggest, picking one and holding it to her.

"Optimism," she says. "Now that could be appropriate…a small amount of the time."

"What of a Gardenia?" I ask, handing her a fine specimen.

"I do confess I'm not entirely sure what Gardenias symbolize," she says, accepting it into her bouquet.

"I do," I say. "Secret love."

She eyes me. It's a bold move, and I know it. But her eyes are still sparkling and the air around her is heavy with shadows and there's so much I want to ask her but can't.

"Well, I'm afraid I know very little of love," she says.

I'm not sure what that could be. Not entirely rejection, but not an invitation, either. I'll have to keep pressing.

"What of the iris?" I ask, spotting the nearby bush. I pick one free and hand it to her. "It symbolizes eloquence."

"Pretty," she says. "With a fitting meaning for yourself, but not quite suitable for myself, I fear."

"So if you would not have love, nor respect, nor pride, nor beauty, nor magnificence, nor optimism, nor eloquence, then what would you choose to symbolize?"

"I would not choose a flower based on symbols," she says. "I would choose it because I like the way it makes me feel."

"Well, what would your favorite be?" I ask her. "We have all sorts growing here."

"Hm…" she looks around the rows of colors and petals. "I don't see it here. My favorite."

"Really? The broadest collection of specimens in the kingdom and you don't see it here?"

"I'm afraid not," she says.

"I'm in shock," I say. "You've exposed some great and hidden fault in the royal gardens!"

"So soon before my untimely departure," she says. "I must go now."

She sinks into a curtsey again and bundles the bouquet in her hand as she turns to leave.

"Wait," I call after her.

"Hm?" she turns to look back.

"Which one is your favorite, then?" I ask her.

She gives me a small, wistful smile. "Orchid," she says, and then she is gone.

Why do I keep forgetting to ask for her name?


	9. Chapter 9

_** Ambriella**_

**Week Two. Day One.**

Staying put today is more of a punishment for myself than anything else. I absolutely refuse to go to the ball until I've gathered my thoughts. What happened last night? Did I seriously almost get to talking about my mother? How many years has it been since I've talked to anybody about her? I've lost count.

I scrub the floor with a little more ferocity than usual, ferocity I ought not to use—I still can't find my gloves. Lucia certainly hasn't complained.

"I want this floor clean enough to eat off of by our return in the morning."

Well, considering I've been wiping the floor with the potatoes I've been serving you all evening, and seeing as you haven't died of poisoning, I'd say it's quite clean, wouldn't you agree?

"Yes, Mother," I say.

Drisella nearly slips on the wet floor. I catch her by the hem of her dress. Just the smallest droplets of water catch on the fabric.

"You clumsy little fool!" she screeches, pushing me back.

Her hand might have left a bruise on my arm and I can feel that before I've even hit the floor. Dammit. Landing on your ass on a tile floor is never a good thing.

"You've gone and soiled my gown!" she says. "Mother, look at this!"

Lucia swats the side of my head. I inhale slowly, keeping my head down and my eyes on the floor.

"A thousand pardons, Mother," I say stiffly. "Apologies, Drisella."

"Apology _not _accepted!" she says. "I want this gown re-pressed when I return."

"As you say," I nod, picking up the brush and resuming the scrubbing.

No need for things to get nasty, Drisella. In two months' time you'll be cleaning the chamber pots, anyways.

I don't usually go this far. Rubbing their food on the floor or sabotaging things in any equally serious way. But it seems that the closer I get to the Big Day, the worse my mood becomes. Little things that I once told myself I'd handle with a straight face have suddenly made me monstrous. Like the bill for the gowns. Allendale gold being made to finance the designing of 42 gowns for Lucia, Drisella, and Anastasia. Allendale gold pouring out of their hands to pay for three custom carriages. Allendale gold being made to pay for Brown's finest gray ponies. Allendale gold paying for lace and parasols and chiffon and fans and the Allendale heiress to keep Royce Manor from looking like a stable. I have to keep my head on, I know that. I can't boil over until then. I'm almost there. I'm almost free. So I scrub that tile until my hand is screaming in protest, the fingers red and the skin cracking again.

Though I'm hardly complaining about my task for tonight. I need the distraction. What was I thinking? He was nice and sweet and he asked questions and listened to the answers and how long has it been since anyone has done that to me? Has it been so long that I'll melt for the first person who offers their attention? Who knows what's going through his head? What on earth was going through _mine_? Hell no I'm not going to start spewing memories of mother to the first stranger. I'm not interested in crying into the glass of wine someone offers me.

But he was so nice and pure. Why can't other people be more like him? And what's wrong with wanting to talk to someone who honestly seems interested in hearing what I have to say?

No. Absolutely not. I have a mission—two months and then it's done. Under no circumstances may I tell that prince my name or anything about me. He'll talk and whoever he talks to will talk and word will eventually reach Lucia and then I'm likely to die before I get the chance to turn eighteen and make her kiss my shoes.

So no more talk. Especially not of mother. Even if I _wasn't_ worried about having my throat torn out by my angry stepmother I'd never tell anyone a word about mother anyways.

Maybe I should stay put. Maybe it'd be safer for me—for the both of us. I think of the bouquet I got out of yesterday's visit sitting upstairs in my room. That was too personal for my taste.

But he was so _nice_.

Snap out of it. It was a single conversation with a total stranger. Stay put and keep yourself in the safe zone—you need to be completely _invisible_ until the Big Day.

Though kindness is a really rare trait these days. And how bad would it be to have someone to talk to every now and again? I mean—it's not like it's a permanent thing. These balls only last a fortnight.

So…what then?

Go, Ambriella. You don't know that many people anyways, and that means that you won't be able to invite that many people when you turn the magic number. So this is likely to be as close as you'll ever get to a victory party. So…go. But mind your distance from the fucking prince. Don't ever come _close_ to talking about Mother. You've come too far and sacrificed too much of your dignity to throw it all away for a stupid prince. A ball, however, will only ever be a ball. You've earned the night out. But be careful. She may be spending Allendale gold and she may be living the Allendale birthright, but right now, it's still Lucia's to use. It's _yours_, Ambriella—that much is true. But not legally. Not yet. So go. But be careful.


	10. Chapter 10

_** Prince Rainier**_

**Week Two. Day Two.**

Remember to ask for her name. Remember to ask for her name. Remember to ask for her name.

She's in periwinkle. Blue becomes her so very well.

"Why don't you come every day?" I ask her.

She looks up and curtsies. "Good evening, my prince. I'm certainly glad to see you again."

I wish she'd come by daily. Or at least stay longer. The limited time I get with her isn't enough to get through to her head. She's closed off again tonight, I can see it before I've even reached her. But there's some new wall of ice between us, and I feel it the moment she looks at me. What has happened to her since our last conversation?

"As am I to see you," I say. "Why do you not attend every day?"

"Well…" she looks around at the garden as we exit the ballroom. "Perhaps I am a fairy with magical obligations I must return to."

I can entertain such an idea as this. She seems oddly magical.

"Do these obligations involve pixie dust and magic wands?" I ask.

She smiles. "No wands, but plenty of pixie dust. Unfortunately, I'm quite allergic to it. It makes for a terrible experience."

"Really," I say, and in spite of myself, my smile is gone. "Why do you not attend every day?"

"Well…" and her smile fades as well. She sits down on a nearby bench. "I suppose we all have realities to return to."

"And yours…where might someone find your reality?"

"In a magical fairy tree," she says, and the smile is back on her face, but her eyes are different. Guarded.

"Really," I urge her.

"Not here in the palace, that I can assure you," she says.

"That's not an answer," I say.

"Well, you're hardly asking a proper question. Phrasing is important."

"Well, here: where do you live?"

"What if I chose not to tell you?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Because I do not want to."

"But why?"

"Because I cannot."

"_Can_not or _will_ not?"

"Pick one," she says. "Whichever one suits Your Grace."

She's infuriating. Deliberately being shady to keep my attention? That's low. I hadn't thought she'd be that low. I'm oddly disappointed.

"Please," she says, sighing. My face must be easy to read. "Forgive me, my prince. I do not intentionally toy with you. But such a question is…too personal for me."

"Of course," I say dryly. "Forgive my maladroitness."

She won't tell me where she lives. She skips every other day. She stays only for an hour—or two if she's feeling generous—and she never leaves a card. Think, Rainier. What could that mean?

A delicate breeze blows past us. I sneak a glance at my reflection on her wineglass discreetly. The wind has jostled my hair. It actually looks rustically handsome, if I do say so myself.

_Focus_, Rainier.

This girl is married. Not a maiden, but a married woman trying to pass the hours. A married woman with a difficult marriage, no doubt, if she can attend such limited hours. I look at her as she gets to her feet, watch her walk ahead of me, pausing to touch a gloved finger to a flower. That's why she wears the gloves. She has an imprint from her wedding band, and she wears the gloves to cover it up. Her walk is slow, deliberately slow. Her gaze is thoughtfully forlorn. She has a truly miserable marriage, then. Her husband has broken her spirit almost entirely. While I have reservations about stirring up trouble with married women—my mind is still reeling from the _last _time I did something like that—there's something in particular about _this _married woman that just keeps me rooted to the ground.

Walk away, Rainier. She's trouble and she'll suck you into a vortex of misery. Married women always do. Too miserable to live with their horrible husbands, not miserable enough to willingly leave them. Caught in the gray area between passion and dispassion, and I'll tell you—it's _ugly_ in that gray area.

But I already ordered the orchid bush. It's not going to arrive until the 22nd—the last day of the ball. If she continues with her pattern, then the 22nd falls on a skip day for her. But I had been hoping to convince her to come. Only now I am not so certain.

She eyes me for the longest time, studying my apprehension, my hesitancy. She gives me a small smile and sinks into a curtsey.

"I suppose I ought to be leaving now," she says. "Farewell, my prince."

It's early—even for her. She's barely been here for a half hour. But maybe this isn't a bad thing. I need to collect my thoughts. Think this through. Married women are dangerous territory—they always have been. It's so easy to fall in love with someone who's already shackled to someone else. And if I'm going to let diamond eyes consume me, then I need to carefully consider the ripple effect.

"Farewell," I say as she disappears from my line of sight.

And again I forgot to ask for her name.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Ambriella**_

**Week Two. Day Three.**

I'm still smiling to myself about that idiot prince. He checked himself out. I swear. I saw it. He checked himself out in my wineglass, fixed his hair. What a princess.

Not too long ago, Lucia and the girls took off. I've been laughing so hard that I almost forgot how annoyed he is with me. And he _is_ rather annoyed, truth be told. I suppose it'd be enough to annoy anybody, how cryptic I've been. I'm nearing the Big Day, so I wouldn't normally care how anyone feels as long as Lucia and the girls are happy enough to leave me alone. But this does nag at my stomach a bit. He's the closest thing I've had to a friend in the last decade. And now I've gone and upset him.

So…should I go tomorrow? I mean…what would be the point if I'm not going to talk to him? It'd be awfully dreary and boring, floating through the motions of a ball when he's not around to keep me company. What would I do if not speak with him? Who would wonder with me through the gardens? Who would give me a smoldering smile as I walk through the doors?

I do confess I like his company. It's fun to watch him pick apart every word I say. It's fun to talk to him. It's fun to have him near, to joke with him. How long has it been since I've spoken to someone who didn't want me to do something for them? How long has it been since I've been truly happy to see someone?

Oh, get a grip, Ambriella. The prince is simply being a prince. Considerate and kind…and gentle…and sweet…

Stop it. You don't go for the prince, do you? You certainly didn't go to the balls in the first place so you could win over a prince. You went to silently say 'fuck you' to Lucia. Speaking of which, she's in a foul mood.

"You forgot to wash your face before you brought in my tea," she says angrily as she enters, and she pulls back her hand—SMACK!

I stagger backwards. That one was much, much harder than usual. Yep—she's definitely angry.

"There were cinders floating in my teacup, you deplorable _urchin_!" she empties the contents of the teacup on my apron and tosses the cup aside. Thank God the thing lands on the rug safely—I don't think she'll be able to afford all of the china that's been broken in the past month.

"I beg your pardon, Mother," I say, picking up the teacup quickly. "I'll bring you another one immediately—"

"It's no good now," she says. "It was supposed to be _early evening tea_, now look what time it is!" she pulls back the curtain to show that the sun has already set. "I have to go prepare for the ball. Keep that face of yours clean before you serve me _anything_, am I clear?"

"Yes, Mother," I say. The sting is particularly prominent today. I'm more on edge than I thought.

"Filthy little insect," she mutters under her breath as she disappears upstairs. I watch the skirts of her gown vanish from view.

Almost there, Ambriella. Stay calm. Don't kill her just yet. Her reckoning is almost here. She's done so much worse than slap me before. Why should this bother me? I can remember two years back, when I tripped with a cup of coffee and accidentally spilled it on Anastasia's arm. The burn wasn't even that bad—the coffee had gone cold. But Lucia didn't care. She had dragged me to the stable by my hair and hit me across the face with a horsewhip. It took months for the last of that mark to go away. She nearly blinded me, but by some miracle, her aim is horrible and she missed my eye.

Almost there, love. Stop your hands from shaking. She'll be on her knees soon, and if you kill her now then you'll never get to see her beg. Breathe slow. In. Out. You can do it. You're almost there.

"Ambriella," Anastasia calls from upstairs. "You left my tea tray here. It's just sitting here. Come collect it! I hate when she gets lazy like this…"

Almost there. Almost. They'll pay you back every last cent they've taken and they'll pay you back every last day of your life they've robbed you of. Almost there.

When they're gone, I make a crunch cake for tomorrow's tea. I debate for a while about slipping something into it to give them indigestion, but ultimately decide against it. Their glory days are almost over. I'll let them enjoy it while they still can. Under the radar, Ambriella. Stay nice and kind, like your mother taught you. Although your mother never had to deal with Lucia Tremaine or those great cows she calls children.

What's the good in being kind and nice when you're surrounded by evil? Why bother with politeness and manners when your stepmother is waiting for you to make the slightest misstep so she can drag you by your hair and whip you? Slap you? Kick you down the front steps? Throw a decanter and your head (and miss—her throwing arm is worse than her aim)? Toss you into the attic of your own home? Starve you? Watch you wither away into shadows? Spend your money? Mother never had to deal with any of that—she wouldn't have asked me to be kind if she knew what she was leaving me to when she died.

Never_mind_, Ambriella. You've done everything that you can. You've been kind. You welcomed them warmly when Father first turned up with them. You stayed silent as they darkened your doorstep and polluted the shades of Royce Manor with their parties and their friends and their horrible taste in clothing. You are not to blame for the way things turned out. You've done your duty. Father was happy with you when he died. He was proud of how good you were to them. Your father and mother died happy with you—you don't need anyone else's approval.

Lucia can go rot in a dark, dark hole. I'll have her dig one herself soon enough and then I'll watch her jump into it. I'm going to the ball tomorrow and—for the trouble—I'll have an excellent time. As for the friend that I might possibly have lost yesterday evening…screw him. Screw. Him. I was perfectly content to go to the balls without his attention, and I'll continue to do just that. I've had enough of people disappointing me and acting as though I'm the one to blame. If he wants to be a spoiled brat, then fine. I deal with spoiled brats regularly—I've no interest in interacting with one on a night off at a ball.

So I tuck Lucia and Anastasia and Drisella and Prince Rainier in the back of my mind and try to focus on the crunch cake. Soon, Ambriella. You're almost there.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Prince Rainier**_

**Week Two. Day Four. **

Being in love with a married woman is always a nasty, complicated situation. Being a prince in love with a married woman can make the situation a little less difficult. A prince can call for a divorce. I could do it. I could. Her husband isn't likely to speak out against me. Although I'd be inclined to believe he's a powerful, wealthy man considering the quality of the gowns she wears, I don't think he's actually important enough to make my father reconsider my divorcing them.

Provided, of course, that I _do _divorce them.

I'm still not sure if I should. I thought about it. But I can't figure it out. She's here, you see, and I'm so out of sorts—let me tell you—I haven't once caught my reflection since she arrived, but I'm fairly certain that I'm not looking my best right now.

She doesn't seem to notice me watching her. She doesn't even look in my direction. She's _maddening_. I'm the _prince_—what could be more interesting than me? Am I seriously expected to believe that you find the paintings in the hallway more appealing to your eye than my face? Maybe she's looking at her own reflection on the glass. I suppose I'd pass on staring at a prince if I could stare at a face like hers.

She drifts out into the gardens again, wine in hand. That's either an invitation to me to get closer to her or a signal to get far away. I don't need this nonsense. Married women are volatile territory and I've no business treading in such dangerous waters. Prince or not, I'd rather avoid causing a scandal no matter how eager she seems in one. I don't need her. Sparkle all you want, little diamond. I'm not getting any closer.

I last twenty two minutes before I'm running out into the garden, searching for some sign of her gown. What color is it tonight? I think hard. Purple. In the right light it looks gold. There she is. By the cherry blossom tree.

"What must life be like here?" she asks quietly when I arrive, sensing my presence. "In a palace where everyone treats you…well…like a prince?"

"I'm not sure how to answer," I say. "I've never been anyone but a prince. I've never known life any other way to compare it to anything."

"Has there ever been a time when you felt like you could be anything else?" she asks.

"Well…there was this one time," I say. "This one night…on a ball just like this…a merchant from the east had been travelling through the nearby town of Amonta. Have you ever seen the town?"

"I have," she says. "It's very close to the palace."

"Well…this merchant brought all sorts of goods from his homeland, one of which was Bolbec."

"I've heard of the stuff," she says. "It's…strong, as I'm told."

"Strong isn't half of it," I assure her. No, Rainier. Don't smile. You're irate. _Be _irate. "The stuff is poisonous. I had one glass of it and I passed out within the hour. The next morning, I was caught in the worst situation, on the brink of death. And…the merchant—he just laughed at me. Talked over and over again about how commonly he saw such sights. And it got me to thinking about all the things he's seen, all the places he's been, all the princes he's laughed at. Some people will never leave their nests, never see anything out there, never meet such a range of people. As a prince, you get to travel and you get to see new faces…but not as freely as a merchant would. And I suppose…if there was ever a time I would have wanted to be someone else, then maybe that morning would have been it."

I did _not _just tell this girl about the Black Morning.

"Hm…" she seems to be pondering my words as she steps up onto the brick lining of the flowerbeds.

"And you?" I ask. "Was there ever a time when you wanted to be something other than…whatever you are?"

Her face doesn't change. "Every day," she says. My eyes fall on her gloved left hand, lingering on her ring finger, trying to imagine the imprint there. "When I was young…I used to want to be a pianist."

"A pianist?"

"Yes, sir. I used to play all the time before…" she trails off again, lost in some distant thought.

"What made you stop?" I ask.

"Life, I suppose," she says.

Husband.

"Life."

"Indeed," she nods, holding out her arms to keep herself balanced as she walks the brick line. I take her hand to keep her steady. "I wanted to be a pianist."

"And what have you become instead?" I ask her. The first step to confronting this problem—I can't take a single step further with her if she doesn't admit she's married.

"Someone very, very different," she says.

I watch her as she spins ahead slowly. Everything she does is timed. Why does she make life so complicated? Why do her eyes sparkle like that? Why does her near crippling melancholy draw me in? What is it about her solitary air that makes her so alluring?

Don't do it, Rainier. Don't take another step.

I stop abruptly. She doesn't notice. Good. Now I have time to think. I draw a mental line right here in the grass between the hydrangeas and the azaleas. She spins on ahead towards the freesias, but until I've figured this out, this is where I'll stay.

Trying to think anything through when she's not around is impossible. My head is too foggy with thoughts of diamond eyes and long brown hair and a sad little half smile and thoughts of quiet and desolation. But when she is near, my head feels oddly clearer and foggier at the same time. Now—if ever—would be the perfect time for me to think this through, while she's spinning ahead and humming a tune I've never heard of to herself.

Don't take another step. You can turn around and walk away right now. You can leave her to her husband and her melancholy and her sparkle and she'll haunt you for days, months, weeks, _years, _but a day will come when you'll wake up and she won't be the first thing you think of. You'll forget her. You'll marry and carry on with your life just as she'll carry on with hers. And you'll think of her in the distant future now and again. A sparkle or a smile or a hint of her relentless sadness will reach you somehow. But in time, it'll fade and be gone. And she will fade back into the shadows from whence she came and she'll become nothing once again—nothing but a memory. A memory of clinking champagne flutes and ballgowns and music and gardens. A distant and beautiful memory.

Or you could take the step. And if you do, things will never be the same again. Your mind will never again be free to wander wherever it should please. You'll think of her first when you awaken, and last before you drift into sleep. You take that step, and you'll fall. You'll fall in love, and falling in love with this girl will change you. It will change her. It will change the game. It will change everything. Falling in love will change your world. Here you are, walking the delicate line between interest and love, and for once, the choice is yours. But whichever way you go, there's no going back. Take the step back or take the step forward. Once it's done, it's done. Choose wisely, Rainier.

I linger there, standing uncertain, anxiety coloring my face. I wonder if she'll see it if she turns to look at me. But she's distracted, humming something to herself so silently I can barely hear it—I doubt even _she_ can hear it. There have only been a select few moments of my life where I've felt myself walking the line between two daring choices such as this one right now. In each of those times, I've had clear choices and I've had to make my own decisions. But not this time. This girl gives me no option. She seals my fate when she pauses at last by the violets, turns halfway, and whispers softly,

"I've never told _any_one that before."

Six words. Not much.

She doesn't linger after this. She's shaken by what she's told me. She sinks into a curtsey and leaves. I sit in a corner of the ballroom for the rest of the evening, watching the people pass me by dancing and laughing until sunrise when the birds start to chirp and the cleanup begins. I slowly walk to my room. I should try to get some sleep in before tonight's ball, but I can't. A sleeping draught seems pointless when I've got so much to think about.

'I've never told _any_one that before.'

Six words. Not much. But I could feel it in the silence between us, and I can feel it as I lay in bed. I can feel it as Ivan pulls the curtains shut around my bed, enveloping me in darkness.

I can still feel her hand in mine. Her phantom touch lingers even after exhaustion has come to claim me. The echo of her voice soothes me to sleep.

She's broken and reclusive and quiet and hurt. But she's also slow simmering and sparkling and clever and free. There's something dying in her, but something close to breaking free.

Six words. Not much. But it's enough.

I am in love.


	13. Chapter 13

_**Ambriella**_

**Week Two. Day Five. **

I don't have a single thing to do today. The staff has the night off, and before they went out they all helped me make quick work of tending to the place. The only person on the property is Andy the stable boy, and he's in the stable doing God knows what, so I now find myself in the odd position of having nothing to do. I suppose I could go to the ball, but…I shouldn't and I know it. Yesterday night I broke my own rule and I started talking about the piano. Not a good thing. A bad thing. A very _very_ bad thing.

I don't like this whole arrangement anymore. Specifically, I don't like where it's going. I've come a long way in the past nine years and I'll not have a prince of all people ruining everything for me. I can't exact revenge on Lucia if I'm in love with a prince. I don't like the idea of love. I loved my mother but she still died. My love couldn't save her. It certainly couldn't save my father when he died a year later. And it most definitely couldn't save me from Lucia or else it would have at some point during these past nine years.

I've been hurt enough in the name of love. I can't do this again.

But he's so kind and so considerate and so sweet and so curious and so gentle and so handsome and so…ugh. So perfect. He's the complete opposite of what I've dealt with this past decade. How sweet would it be to just spend forever in that garden under an eternal moon talking to him?

But no. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. _No. _Absolutely positively not. No way in Hell or Heaven or here in between am I going to get wrapped up in this sort of nonsense. No way. Not now that I'm _this _close.

Don't be a fool, Ambriella. You're too close. He's kind and considerate and sweet and curious and gentle and handsome and perfect but that's not worth everything you've suffered for.

Or is it? Or is _he_?

No. No it can't be. He's kind and considerate and sweet and curious and gentle and handsome and perfect but that won't compensate for everything you've gone through. He can't cushion that blow, the damage has already been done. You've come too far—you can't cross that line now.

My thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door. Probably Andy hoping I'll steal him some of Lucia's funny cigarettes. I open the door. Not Andy.

"Evening, Miss Ambriella," Edward says, smiling at me. I can't help but smile back at him.

"Good evening, Edward. What brings you here at this hour?"

"Well...I thought Madame Allendale won't be home around now—being at the ball and all—and so I thought to bring you this."

And he holds up a basket of strawberries. I smile wider and let him in.

"Now where did you happen upon such fine specimens?" I ask, taking a bite of one. No joke. It's a fucking good strawberry.

"I picked them from the forest, Miss," he says. "The wild ones grow not too far from here. I saw them and I remembered your cherry tart and I thought...you might like to use them."

"Well, they would make an excellent tart," I say. "Would you like to help me bake it?"

"Could I, Miss?"

"Of course. Roll up your sleeves, now. Have you ever worked in a kitchen before?"

"Once," he says as he stands on a stool to watch me lay out the ingredients for dough. "I used to work in a bakery as a delivery boy."

"Did you like it there?"

"It was warm and it smelled nice," he says. "But the baker was mean. He always used to hit me with rolling pins and things."

"Did he give you that?" I ask, gesturing to the faint burn scar on his forearm.

"Yeah," he says. "Did Lady Allendale give you _that_?" he asks, gesturing to the side of my face. The area is a violent, unattractive shade of reddish pink. I used powder at the ball to cover it up, but here with no cosmetics to shield it from view I suppose anyone can guess how I got it.

"Unfortunately. Here, wash these out for me while I get this dough ready."

"Are you going to bake honey into the dough?" he asks.

"I suppose we can," I say. "Did the baker do that?"

"No. But my mother did. At least I remember that the tart crust was always sweet to the taste."

"Well, then we'll bake honey into it. I got a few jars from the beekeeper last week, they're in the pantry."

Edward and I bake honey into the tart. While it's baking, we have lemonade with strawberries to cool us off. Because he looks as though he hasn't eaten in a week, I give him the tart once it's cooled. He doesn't linger for very long.

"I've got an appointment first thing tomorrow morning," he says. "I can't be delaying appointments or no one'll hire me."

"Well, don't let me keep you," I say, wrapping up the tart and kissing his cheek before I hurry him out the door.

I eat strawberries until the early hours of morning, when Lucia and the girls stumble into the foyer.

"I'll have some warm water for my feet, Ambriella."

"Yes, Anastasia."

"I'll have some warm milk to help me sleep, Ambriella."

"Yes, Drisella."

"I want that hearth scrubbed again, Ambriella."

"Yes, Mother."

And then their doors are closed and I'm left in silence.

So what am I to do with this little pickle now? I know that this situation unfolding with Rainier is not going anywhere good. I can't afford to be stumbling into a whirlwind romance right now. This will get messy and I can't be cleaning it up under Lucia's watchful eye. This prince will most definitely come back to haunt me. I know better than this. I know better than to get tangled up in this sort of mess. I _know_ better.

But I haven't had a friend in so long, and lately life has seen fit to give me one. Two, technically. Edward is a sweet little boy. And I suppose that Rainier has been good to me. He's been more than good. He's been wonderful. And I suppose that means that I owe it to him to return tomorrow—if only to say goodbye.

So that's it, then. Tomorrow I will go and say my goodbye.


	14. Chapter 14

_** Prince Rainier**_

**Week Two. Day Six. **

It seems I've come to a great many realizations of simple truths. Small, minute little clues that I ignored before when my head was still spinning, but now it would appear that everything has become suddenly clear.

She lets me spin her around and lift her into the air and she's not smiling because she doesn't seem to be terribly fond of dancing, but the fact that she's dancing for me is a good sign. She'll come out of her comfort zone for my sake. So there's some hope that I can convince her to come tomorrow. Would it be terribly difficult to ease her out of her comfort zone once more and break her schedule?

She doesn't have much to say to me, as per usual. She glimmers in gold, though. She's made me the envy of half the ballroom. And she dances fluidly and easily, like she'd been born in a ballroom, which is funny when you stop to consider just how much she hates being in one.

When the dance is over, she walks out of the room. Not to the garden. Through the halls. She takes my arm and looks around at all the paintings on the walls. I could tell her. I could. I _should_. But I can't.

"I know you have a...schedule," I say slowly. "And I know that you prefer to...keep to it. And I'm not sure what it is that happens to you outside of this palace that keeps you from coming every day. But...do you think...you might..."

Dammit, Rainier, _out with it_.

"Hm?" she eyes me.

"Do you think you could come back again tomorrow?" I ask her. I hope she can't see the desperation in my eyes. Desperation is not attractive. But it's not easy to mask and I truly am grasping at straws here. "I know it's a lot to ask, but tomorrow is the last day. There's going to be a massive fireworks display, and I have something else I want you to see. Could you?"

She's silent as she thinks it over. Her eyes move from painting to painting, to the decor, to the doors of the ballroom, to the balcony overlooking the grounds. She walks on slowly.

"Fireworks, you say?" she asks at last.

"Fireworks. Brought in from the far east."

"I've only ever seen them once," she tells me. "When I was very little. It would be so sweet to see them again. Tell me, Rainier—have you ever been to the far east?"

"I've gone as far as the middle east," I say. "But never farther."

"Well, that's farther than I've ever gone."

"You've never travelled?"

"I've never wanted to."

"What do you want, then?"

"Very simple things," she says.

"Such as?"

"Home," she says quietly. "And peace. Or perhaps a peaceful home."

Her husband is a brute or a beast or most likely both. And clearly she's said all that she intends to say about him tonight. She takes her skirts in a careful sweep of the hand and sinks into a curtsey that I truly hate to look at.

"Farewell, my prince," she says.

"You'll be back tomorrow?" I ask as she turns back towards the stairs.

She pauses, her hand on the railing. My eyes linger on that fabric coated left ring finger. Please don't let whatever rests on that finger during the daylight hours stop her from coming back. I know it's wrong to ask for this, but I'm still praying that whatever it is she's got waiting for her back home doesn't mean more to her than what she could have with me if she just comes back one more time.

She turns halfway, seems to look at nothing.

"At least...consider it," I say. "Consider _me_."

I've just jumped off a cliff. My heart is pounding. I've never been this scared before. Which is funny, because there haven't been a great many moments in my life when I was scared of anything at all. Dammit, Rainier. You're not new to this whole 'love' thing. You've been scared and thrilled and ecstatic before. But you've never been _this_ scared or _this _thrilled or _this _ecstatic.

She seems to almost nod, and then she is gone again. It's not much. But like everything else she's done, it's enough.


	15. Chapter 15

_**Ambriella**_

**Week Two. Day Seven.**

He's not a terribly clever prince. He's a little self absorbed—I haven't missed all the times he's stopped to check himself out while he was talking to me. And I know that I told myself I'd say goodbye to him yesterday night, but he seemed so desperate for me to return tonight. Breaking my promises to myself is not something I feel like I should make a habit of.

But he seemed so _urgent_.

So...what then? Should I go back? He said he had something for me. It seemed sort of imperative. I've been wondering about it all day. It's well into the night now. Late—terribly late. Late and Lucia and the girls have gone and I've already dusted every visible surface in the house but I can't stop wondering what it is he wants me to see.

Here's a sticky situation. If I go, then I'm opening myself up to a lot of potentially nasty issues. If I stay, then I'll never know. It's only been a day since my goodbye but I miss his company already. And it's the _last_ day, so surely _tonight_ of all nights is the best night to be there. Yesterday was not a good night to say goodbye. Maybe tonight will be.

Master Buxton isn't expecting me tonight. I hand him my mother's ring and turn to face the gowns. He's got plenty of them, some wild, some loud, some sweet and simple. I've worn the best of his creations already, but today isn't about shining. No, tonight I just want to leave a note of finality. I choose a black ballgown.

Master Buxton's coachman is already at the palace waiting for Talia, with the understanding that I would not be attending today. It takes half an hour to send word to him to come back into Amonta to get me. I'm late, even by my standards.

I was never too enthralled by the palace, truth be told. It's splendid, no questions asked. But I dream of the cream colored halls of Royce Manor. All the same, I do confess that to be the princess of such a castle would be one hell of a thing. Whoever Rainier ends up marrying will be one lucky fucking girl.

I wouldn't really mind staying in the ballroom if there wasn't the ever present threat of running into Lucia or the girls in here. No thank you. I choose _life_. So I've always gravitated towards the garden. This palace has the biggest freaking roses I've ever seen. It's a joke. They're huge. I reach out to touch a soft petal, but the gloves don't really let me feel much of anything. The gloves are necessary, okay? Imagine what people would think if they saw the cuts on my hands. I can't exactly walk into a royal ball with gauze wrapped around my fingers.

I'm just beside the doors to the garden when a scarf is wrapped around my eyes.

"What?"

"It's fine," says Rainier's voice. "It's fine, it's me."

"Wha—what's going on?" I ask. "Where are you taking me?"

"To your surprise," his voice says. His hands grip my arms gently and he guides me along slowly.

"I'm going to fall."

"You're not going to fall, I've got you."

"I'm going to fall."

"No, you won't."

"I'm going to fall on my face."

"No, you won't fall on your face."

"Then I'll fall on _your_ face."

"That wouldn't actually be so bad."

"What if I accidentally bit your nose off?"

"Why would you bite my nose off?"

"Accidents happen."

"Have you ever bitten anyone's nose off?"

"No comment," I say. I can hear him chuckle. We stop at last. I can't hear any music or voices. "Where are we?" I ask.

"We're here," he says, and the scarf is lifted from my face. I open my eyes. Oh, Jesus.

I wasn't in any way serious when I told Rainier that I like orchids. In truth, I hate them. It's such an elitist flower. But orchids were the only flower that I couldn't see in his garden, so that was the one I chose—just to mess with him, you see. But now the prince has gone and corrected that flaw in the royal gardens, because I'm staring right at an orchid bush. Fully bloomed. It's pretty—but still elitist. But I'll hand it to him—it was thoughtful. Really thoughtful. I don't know if I'd ever go planting flowers for a girl I'm likely never to meet again.

"Orchids," I say, smiling hugely as I reach forward to touch one. "How pretty."

"I...I know now," he says. "Why you won't tell me anything about you."

"Oh?"

"It's because you never intend to see me again."

I turn away from the flowers and look at him. I don't think anyone's ever looked this good. Does he know how attractive he is? Well—yeah he does. I remember him checking himself out in glassware. But I've never seen him looking this _sad_ before. There's something about him that seems brighter, in an aged sort of way. Some new hope has grown within him.

"It would be best that way, I suppose," I say.

It would. Because I can't be whatever he's hoping to make of me and still be the Lady of Royce Manor. One or the other—and I've wanted Royce Manor longer than I've wanted to be around him.

"Do you see that window on that tower up there?" he asks, pointing upward at one of the hundred towers.

"I see it," I say.

"That window is mine. So now, every day when I wake up and look out my window, I'll see this bush and remember you, and that'll remind me of my promise."

"What promise?" I ask.

"This one," he says, and he takes my hand. I can feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of my glove. "I don't know who you are or where you come from or why you don't want me to know. I have only theories and possibilities that I know you'll neither confirm nor deny. And when you leave tonight, go off wherever you go, disappear into the shadows again—it doesn't matter. I'll find you someday. I'll find you and I'll save you from whatever Hell you seem so keen on keeping to."

Don't go there.

"Rainier..."

"I'll let you go this one last time. I'm going to find you no matter where you go, and I'll destroy whoever's hurting you."

"It's not that simple," I say quietly.

So he cares? Big deal. Don't cry, Ambriella. You were loved once before. Though it was long, long ago, the soft and simple love of a mother and father for their sweet little child. Not this fierce floodgate you can see in the bright blue eyes of this perfect prince.

How long has it been since anyone's fought this hard for you?

Damn you, treacherous tear trickling down my cheek. Rainier wipes it away with his thumb.

"It's complicated, then?" he asks. "You think that will stop me? It won't. Nothing will. I've fought battles of all sorts and I've dealt with snakes at every turn challenging me, manipulating me, aggravating me and I've done it all with a smile. My sole weakness, the one chink in my armor, appears to be you. Nothing will stop me from finding you, and nothing will stop me from protecting you. Your oppressor can't be any more difficult to handle than the rats that I deal with every day of my life. If he fills an ocean, I will sail it. If he grows a forest, I will cross it. If he raises an army, I will cut through it like a knife through butter. I'll find him and I'll carve out his heart and I'll do whatever it takes to see you smile."

Pause. Who the hell is '_he_'?

"He, my prince?"

"He. This vicious husband who has silenced your voice and broken your spirit."

"Husband?"

Oh, Jesus. The guy thinks I'm married.

"Your husband, my sweet."

"Rainier—I'm not married."

His face goes blank for a moment.

"You're not?"

"I—no."

"But then—you never tell me anything and you're so secretive. Why will you not tell me anything if not to conceal us from a husband?"

"There is no husband, my prince," I say.

"Then—then tell me," he says. "Where are you from? What is your name? Where can I find you again?"

"My circumstances cannot allow for me to be frank with you about my identity," I say. "Or any other detail about me. I'm sorry."

He just stares at me. "That makes no sense," he says. "If you have no husband shackling you...then what sort of family would object to your being with _me_?"

"I told you," I say. "It's not that simple."

This is going south fast, Ambriella. Get out of here.

"You can't—" he runs his fingers through his hair, aggravated. "You can't seriously tell me that you're single and just leave it at that. You don't simply renew a man's hope only to bury it deeper."

Oh, God. Get out _now_.

"I..." I look around. "I'll tell you. But every answer I give you comes with a price."

"What is this price?"

"An orchid for each answer. How many questions do you wish to ask me?"

"So many," he says.

"Give me a _number_, my prince," I say, my head already starting to spin.

"I—three," he says. "Three questions."

"Then pick me three of these orchids and I will answer the questions for you."

He blinks, then leans towards the orchid bush to pick the flowers loose.

"The biggest ones!" I say to him.

I wait until he's got his arm in deep, then I turn tail quietly and run like a choir boy from a priest. The garden has a lot of twists and turns and Rainier led me out with a scarf over my eyes into a deeper part of these grounds. It's about two turns ahead when I hear it.

"Wait!" his voice echoes into the quiet of the night. "Wait—tell me your _name_!"

Oh, damn. Follow the music, Ambriella. Hurry now.

The ballroom is completely packed with people and the music is loud. But I know that Lucia and the girls are somewhere here, so I stick to the walls, inching along at a painfully slow pace before I finally reach the top of the stairs and tear ass back to Master Buxton's carriage.

"Wait!" comes Rainier's voice at the staircase. "Wait—tell me who you are! Tell me where to find you! I can change their minds, I swear it!"

Sure you can, honey bunches. I don't doubt him. Really. I don't. But the problem here is that I can't even be _close_ to married if I want Royce Manor. And I _do_ want Royce Manor. I want it more than Prince Rainier.

"Hurry up," I say to Arthur. "Hurry!"

I skip the last step and jump into the carriage. Dammit. One of my shoes just came off. Come on. How in the hell am I supposed to explain that to Master Buxton? That I lost one of his crystal embellished shoes? I'll have to wait until the Big Day and then I can pay him back for its full value. So I guess then I'll have to hold onto this other one until then.

I caution a look back at the palace. Rainier's figure, shrinking in the distance. The guards hurrying behind him. Getting...ominously...closer.

Oh, God. Don't let them catch me. The Big Day is coming so close and if I get caught now then Royce Manor will be gone forever. I refuse to lose after all these years— all I've endured. My suffering and patience outweighs this fortnight with the prince by far. My suffering and patience outweighs the prince's entire _existence_.

Eventually I can no longer hear the shouts of the guards behind us. We slow our pace to Amonta town, where I return to Master Buxton's shop and change back into my own dress.

"I'm afraid the other shoe is in royal custody," I tell him, holding up the shoe. "I'll pay you for it, though. Just give me a few weeks."

"How drunk _are_ you?" he asks. "Losing shoes?"

"I'll pay it off," I tell him. "Promise."

"Fine," Master Buxton says. "But I'll be holding onto the ring until you pay up."

So I return home with a sparkling silver shoe. Not having Mother's ring is a thorn in my side—but I'll get it back soon. I just need to wait a few weeks.

I walk into the foyer and look around me. The halls are dark. The staff are all asleep. I tiptoe upstairs to my room. There's a heavy breeze picking up—a parting gift from the winter. I light some straw in my makeshift fireplace and huddle to myself.

He'd sail an ocean. He'd cross a forest. He'd cut through an army like a knife through butter. And he'd do it for _me_.

Snap out of it, Ambriella. It's over and done with now. You stick to the plan like a good girl. Be patient. Be kind. Be smart. The prince can't change the Allendale rules of inheritance. The prince can't give you Royce Manor if you go with him. The prince can't offer you anything you want—except maybe love.

No, no, no. You don't want that. You don't want love. You _don't_. It's let you down enough. Haven't you learned? The cost of love is too high. Even the prince's fortune can't pay it off. The things you want are things that he cannot give you. Love hurts and it cuts and it burns and it's far more trouble than it's worth. No thank you. I've had enough of love.

Yes, if he makes you his princess then Lucia and the girls will get on their knees and beg your forgiveness. Yes, they will be kissing your shoes. Yes, they will be spending the remainder of their pathetic lives with their heads inside your asshole. Yes, they will be forever miserable. But not because of Ambriella Allendale. Because of Ambriella _Harrington_. It will be _Rainier_ that threatens them, not me._ I_ want to be the one who makes them beg. _I_ want to be the one they bow to. The Allendale heiress they wronged, not the Harrington princess all subjects are sworn to obey.

Though I do confess it's nice to know that I'm still loved by someone. Even if I can't accept it, I'll keep it with me here somewhere. It keeps me warm—warmer than this fire. Rainier would sail an ocean. He would cross a forest. He would cut through an army like a knife through butter. And he would do it for _me_.

I'm startled to know that I almost wish I could have stayed put there with him, that perfect prince of mine—let him love and protect me forever. For anyone else, it would have been enough. For me, this house was enough—once. But I'm not so sure anymore.

I'm ashamed. After all of my care and caution, it only took a fortnight. Just a single fortnight to make me second guess the past decade of my life. One single fortnight to change a pattern of thought that had been running steady for so long. In my wildest dreams I'd never imagined that this would be what would make me pause. Love—of all things.

Just when I told God that I'd never love anything again. Haven't I learned enough from all that's already happened to me because of love? I loved Mother, but she still left me. My love wasn't enough to save her. And I loved my Father, but love couldn't help him either. And love definitely couldn't protect me from Lucia—or else it would have at some point in the past decade. I loved my parents, and I loved their memory, and I loved _their_ love that warmed me through the cold nights just as Rainier's love warms me now. And I loved their voices that soothed me to sleep when I had to listen to Lucia and the girls laughing in the night. I loved. And I lost. And I _learned_. No more love. Only memory. Prince Rainier will become a memory, drift off into the sweet abyss in my mind where I tuck only what truly matters, like my perfect parents and my invaluable home and my golden moments here in Royce Manor.

He'll never find me. Because I intend to grow old and die within this house. And if I want that, then I cannot be a princess. And I've wanted Royce Manor longer than I've wanted him. I choose House Allendale—I choose family.


	16. Chapter 16

_**Prince Rainier**_

Maybe she's a Serena. No. Too bright. The brightest thing about her would be the million facets of her eyes.

The ball went out of control after the guards left. People do crazy things when they're drunk, and these people went balls out with no security guards to make sure no one got killed. I had sent all the guards after that carriage, and they returned only to tell me that they had lost it. Now doctors are moving in and out of guestrooms, checking on fools that got into brawls and fell down stairs, people who couldn't seem to manage getting drunk without inciting riots.

Maybe she's an Adriana. No. Too dark. She's neither too light nor too dark, but in that gray place in between.

The good news is that people are likely to be talking about this ball for a long, long, _long_ time. The bad news is that all I've got left of the love of my life is this sparkling shoe.

Maybe she's a Cassandra. I can see that being her name. _Cassandra_. Ew. No.

At least no one touched the Bolbec. I've taken it upon myself to have a glass. I don't even care anymore.

Maybe she's a Corinne. No, no—definitely not.

So there's no husband. Just a family of fools who would bar her from becoming a princess. What sort of idiot would try to keep their daughter from something like that? What do they want—am I to understand that they'd rather have a shepherd? What on earth can any alternative in their minds offer them that I cannot? For God's sake—what are they _thinking_? And what have they drugged her with to make her think that she'd actually be _happy_ with anyone else, anyways? She's been near me, I've told her how I feel. She's got my assurances. Surely she won't even be able to _look_ at anyone else now?

Maybe she's a Lucy.

"My prince," Captain Rhodes tips his head as I drain the glass. It goes down like acid. Bitter, sour, and far too warm. "Perhaps if you could provide me with a description of her appearance, I could have the officers stationed in the villages keep an eye out for her."

Amelia, perhaps?

"She won't make it that easy," I say. "But go ahead."

"What does she look like, sir?"

Alexandra? That could definitely fit her.

"Five foot four, maybe. Brunette. Gray eyes. Pale gray. Beauty marks everywhere."

I can see him writing it down in the corner of my eye. "Anything else you can recall, sir? Any details?"

Tamara?

"I—I can't remember."

"She never spoke of anything that might give us any clues to start with?"

"She was always careful with what she said."

"I see...is there anything else about her you can recall?"

"She likes orchids."

"Orchids, sir?"

"The flowers. Orchids. They're her favorite."

"Of...of course. I'll send out a report to the guards."

Though the guards aren't likely to get any real results, I nod anyways and let him go off on his way.

Please. They're not gonna find her. Not with a bloodhound and a year's head start. The only one who can find her is me, and I have to find her family and smack some sense into them. Personally, I don't care if they burn to a crisp in front of me, but she seems to care a great deal what they think. Which means that winning them over instead of killing them is vital if I ever want to marry her.

But where do I even _start_ to look for her? Well, I'm fairly certain that I'm not going to find her at the bottom of this glass of Bolbec, but I've already drained the thing. Dammit. Shouldn't have done that. As soon as I've returned from the Land of the Dead in the morning, I'll come up with something. Just before my world starts to go black, I see it.

The shoe.

I wasn't clear enough with my intentions. I need to advertise to the world—and her—that I'll make her my princess, not a lover or anything else she's probably dreading.

"Captain!" I call.

Rhodes hurries back inside. "Sir?"

"The—hic—the shoe!"

"The shoe, sir?"

"The _shoe_!" I point at it on the nightstand. The captain picks it up and looks at it from all angles.

"Is this hers?" he asks.

I nod. "Find the—hic—other shoe. Then you'll find the—hic—girl."


	17. Chapter 17

_**Ambriella**_

"There are too many plates on the table, I can't even eat in peace," Drisella says. "And where in _God's name _is my bread? _Ambriella_!"

One week, Ambriella. Even Drisella can't fuck up your mood.

"Apologies, Drisella," I say, laying the bread basket on the table and collecting the plates.

Anastasia jerks her hand back as I take the plate beside her. "You're filthy. What have you been doing?"

"Cleaning the hearth," I say. "As Mother told me to."

"I expect you to clean mine next."

"Yes, Anastasia."

Don't look the slightest bit chipper. It'll fuck you over. Don't glow. Don't glow. Don't glow.

"You're looking awfully colorful today, Ambriella," Lucia says.

"It's Sunday," I say. "There is no better day than a holy one."

"Simpleton," Drisella mutters under her breath.

Anastasia giggles. "Well, before you go to church, make sure you clean this tablecloth."

"The...tablecloth?" I look at it. It's spotless. I cleaned it just yesterday.

Anastasia wipes her jam covered fingers onto the end daintily. You dirty bitch.

"It's an atrocious sight," Drisella agrees, tipping her orange juice over and watching several feet of white fabric change color.

"Of course," I say. "It's filthy. I'll see to it right away."

Lucia watches with a smirk. "And get my coffee, now. Less sugar in this one."

"As you say, Mother."

I dash out of the room and hurry to the kitchen. Cook Agnes eyes me as I pour a fresh cup of coffee and toss in some sugar cubes. I'm not in much of a good mood anymore, though nothing they do will stifle my excitment. They've picked up on how happy I am and they're going to do everything they can to ensure I never glow again.

Go ahead. Everything you do will only make it worse when the Big Day comes.

I take the cup back up to the breakfast room and place it before Lucia. She's still laughing at whatever miserable joke the girls have cracked about me while I was in the kitchen. She takes a sip and spits it back up.

"How am I supposed to drink this?" she asks. "It's far too sweet."

"I'm sorry, Mother," I say, reaching for the cup. "I'll get you another."

"You do that," she says, splashing the coffee at my gown. I wince and jerk backwards quickly. Lucia likes her coffee hot—and I mean _hot._

She decides to finish off the conversation by tossing the cup at me. It hits my cheek, then falls down into my hands. Shit. Right over that same bloody slap mark she gave me.

I contemplate throwing some rat poison into the coffee, but ultimately have to remind myself that in just seven days, I can break her cheekbone with a mallet.

This is the worst last Sunday ever. It's the worst _Sunday_ ever. It's the worst _day_ ever. Operation: Kill Ambriella's Buzz is on their priority list now. I get slapped three times before noon. All by Drisella. Anastasia settles for throwing things at me. Lucia is the only one who is gentler than usual. She just decides to go about giving me extra chores and 'accidentally' tossing my gloves into the fireplace and insisting that the floors aren't clean enough so now I have to concentrate the detergent that makes my fingers peel.

Drisella gets in one more slap before sundown, which she does with a flyswatter. I should point out that this is all on the same cheek. I think the skin is numb now. I swear I didn't even _feel_ the last one.

When I look into the mirror at the end of the day, there's a dark red bruise forming on my face that no amount of powder would ever be able to cover up. It doesn't matter, Ambriella. They've done worse. You've looked worse. They'll be on their knees in a matter of days. On their knees kissing your shoes.

My fingers look terrible. I have to use three times more salve than usual to ease the sting and stop the bleeding. Twice as much gauze is needed to wrap them up.

Nevermind, Ambriella. Wear this. Wear it like armor.

"Ambriella," Lucia's voice says at the door. I freeze. She doesn't come in here often.

"Yes, Mother?"

"I want you to run into town in the morning and get a little something for Drisella's birthday surprise."

Right. The great cow is turning twenty in three days.

"Of course. What would you like me to get her?"

"Tell the baker to prepare a massive macaroon cake," Lucia says. "Something exciting. I want designs all over it. Pink ones."

"Yes, Mother."

"And perhaps she could do a with a few new pearls. She hates her blue ones."

"Of course," I say.

Lucia takes a seat on the edge of my bed. Shit. Don't sit there. Her foot is directly above the loose floorboard where I've hidden one of two embellished shoes. My eyes flicker over it before quickly looking back up at her.

"And maybe some more ribbons," she goes on. "It won't be a birthday without ribbons. And lace, while you're there."

"As you say, Mother."

"And I don't like the job you've done on the floor," Lucia continues, sensing my apprehension. "Concentrate the soap and scrub it again."

"I'll do it first thing in the morning, Mother," I say.

"Oh, I don't see why you can't do it right now," Lucia says, tapping her foot right onto the floorboard. "Yes, now will do nicely."

"Yes, Mother," I say almost breathlessly.

"And I'll be having no sugar in my coffee tomorrow," she adds, tapping her foot again. The glint of silver is visible for a split second as the loose board rises and falls.

"Yes, Mother," I say.

She pauses, eying me. Something's wrong and she knows it. I hold my breath.

"You seem awfully—" Lucia begins.

_Ding dong_.

"Ambriella!" Anastasia yells. "Go get the door!"

Who on earth would show up this late?

I head downstairs and find the maid Louisa holding the front door open. Edward is there on the step with his little hat in his hand.

"Miss Ambriella," he smiles a little when he sees me. "I'm sorry," he pauses. "I know it's late."

"No trouble at all, Edward. Come in, won't you?"

Edward steps inside quietly.

"What's the matter?" I ask. He's off. Different. It's only when I hold my candle closer to him that I see the ugly mark on his forehead. So we've both had rough days, then. "Edward, what happened?"

"One of the gears got funny so I just wanted to see what was wrong...and..."

And he pulled the hat back onto his head, and then I see that he was using it to cover a hideous black and purple mess forming on his skin.

"Oh, Edward!" I take his arm and pull him closer to get a better look at it. "Come with me."

I'm suddenly grateful that Lucia and the girls are the extent of my problems. Dammit, I knew that those gears would do something bad. I never liked the idea of him and his tiny hands getting caught in one. I clean his hand up and wrap it in gauze if only to shield it from view. I'm much easier when I can no longer see the black and purple of his wound. Gauze is a weak approach because I'm positive he must have dislocated something, but I can't take him to a doctor. No one will treat him this late at night. It'll have to wait until morning.

"Don't you ever touch those gears again," I say to him. "I mean it. Ever."

"Yes, ma'am," he says. He allows me to kiss his cheek. "I can't thank you enough."

"Yes, you just did," I say. I pause as he goes back onto the front lawn. "Wait!"

"Yes?"

"Could you—could you do something for me?" I ask him.

"Of course, Miss," he says, hurrying back to the steps. "Whatever do you need?"

"I need you to hold onto something for me," I say. "Can you do that?"

"Of course," he says.

"Wait right here," I say, running up the stairs to the attic.

Lucia is gone, praise the Lord. I half thought she might go digging around while I was down here. The shoe is still there, glinting dangerously in the light. I wrap it up in my apron and run back downstairs, handing the bundle to Edward.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Do not open it," I say. "Take it straight back to the clocktower, hide it away somewhere no one will find it, do you understand?"

"Yes, Miss. I'll hide it."

I kiss his cheek and watch him leave. I can instantly breathe when he's gone from view. No risk of anyone finding that shoe now.

My mind wanders briefly to it's twin, sitting in the palace. Nevermind, Ambriella. You've made your choice. Seven days to go.


	18. Chapter 18

_** Prince Rainier**_

"Size…five and a half," says Crowley, analyzing the shoe from all directions. "Custom made, no tags. No print. No labels. Made for a ghost, it would seem."

"Or just a girl who doesn't want to be found," Father says, giving me a pointed glance as he chortles into his mimosa.

"How many of those have you had?" I ask him. "How many of those has he had?" I ask Crowley.

"Six or seven, can't be sure."

"Father it's barely noon," I say, reaching to take the flute from him. He burps in my face. Charming.

"I'm enjoying this," Father says, waving me off. "This search. Everything's been so _boring_ lately. Boring. This is…_fun._"

"Glad to see _someone_ finds my misery so amusing," I grumble as I sink in my seat.

"This sort of thing isn't cheap, I can tell you that," Crowley says, still holding up the shoe. "Foreign made. Probably Bavarian. You think she could be Bavarian?"

"Maybe by descent. She had no such accent," I say.

"Now I'd like to know what sort of family wouldn't have their daughter marry a prince," Captain Rhodes says.

"You're not alone," I say. "Am I not every woman's dream come true? Why the _devil _would she run from me?"

Father chuckles again. "Perhaps she doesn't approve of your modesty…or lack thereof."

"What's the point in false modesty?" I ask. "It's just another way to make ourselves look better…who needs to pretend when it's literally a fact?"

"Sir, I don't think that a secret search will get us any real results," Rhodes says. "Perhaps we ought to send word out to the public, let them know we're looking for this girl."

"Any girl in the kingdom could have dark hair, gray eyes and wear a size five and a half," I say.

"But only _one_ could have the other shoe," Crowley says, handing the shoe to Rhodes. "That's how we'll do it. Take your men and head into the nearby towns. Start with Burke, Cecily and Amonta and work your way out. Search the homes, check with every family, leave no stone unturned."

"And what am I to tell people is the cause of this…search?"

"Tell them the shoe belongs to the future queen and was stolen," Father says instantly. "The last thing we need is to spread the word that my boy is going to marry a girl because of a shoe. Everyone will go making ones just like it and we'll have hell trying to sort through the pretenders."

Rhodes nods and tips his head, leaving Crowley and I to watch as Father pours himself another mimosa. If he didn't have such high tolerance he'd be on the floor by now.

"I can't wait to meet this girl for myself," Father says. "See what all the fuss is about."

"Perhaps she is already married?" asks Crowley. "Could that be why she ran?"

"No, she's not married," I say.

"Could she be promised to someone else? Arranged by her parents?"

"I can't imagine what arrangement she could be caught up in that I cannot undo," I say. "I'm the _prince_. What out there can I not give her?"

Father giggles. _Giggles_.

"Oh, take that jug from him," I say as Crowley pulls the drink away from his hands.

"You're a man now, Rainier," Father says to me. "But you're still a boy. A stupid, foolish boy. You think she'll fall into your arms like all the others?"

"Not _all_ the others," Crowley murmurs in a quiet aside.

Father doesn't miss it. "Exactly!" he says, pointing at Crowley. "The only times you've ever actually considered being in love is when you're given a challenge. That Serena girl challenged you. That Bianca girl challenged you—granted you blew it both times—but still! You were never closer to being in love than you were with them—until now. Now you've slipped right off the edge, and let me tell you, my boy—it's _dark_ down here in this deep, bottomless abyss. The darkest place you'll ever be in—but ou won't want to go anywhere else. But you're still a boy, still a fool, still think you can wave your royal wand and magic away your problems. So I'll let you in on a little secret," and he leans in close for me to hear this next bit. The mimosa on his breath makes my eyes water. "For some girls out there—a very rare few—being a prince isn't good enough. I know that because I was a prince once, and I was in love once, and being a prince wasn't good enough for her."

"What did she want, then? For you to forsake your inheritance and become a missionary?"

"Nope. All she wanted was a human being."

"And what am I, then?" I ask.

"A human being who acts like a God," Father swats the side of my head disapprovingly. How long has it been since he's done that? "You were kind and good to her and that might have caught her attention, but you're going to ruin all of that and I've watched you shit all over your chances twice before. I'll not be watching it again. You have one last chance to get a woman of true quality. God only ever gives a man three. She—this mystery girl—_she_ is your last hope. So do yourself a favor and learn what I learned once upon a time: _humility_ is your weapon. Not pride. If you want this girl to even consider having you, then you must first consider whether or not you're a person—not a prince—but a _person_ who deserves to be had."

That does not make a single lick of sense to me, but I nod anyways.

I could buy her father a castle when I meet him. I'll waive the dowry. He'll probably love that. I'll make him a duke. Or a grand duke. The extra 'grand' in front of the title usually melts everyone in my favor. As for her mother, I'll buy her a castle as well. And a house next door full of ballgowns and jewels. And _her_…what will I give her?

When she's mine, what _won't_ I give her?


	19. Chapter 19

___**Ambriella**_

Things that make me suicidal:

Drisella/Anastasia screaming at the top of their lungs when I am _right next to them_.

Lucia waving me off like a cockroach.

The doorbell ringing repeatedly. Like it is right now.

"Ambriella!" Drisella screams. "_AMBRIELLA!_ GET THE _DOOR_!"

Just stop breathing, Ambriella. How hard could it be?

Don't. Not yet. Three more days to go. You are literally _so close_.

"Good afternoon, Miss," says a man in a prim and proper suit. "I am Officer Buckley of the King's Guard. May I speak with the owner of the household?"

"Just a moment," I say. Jesus. What's Drisella done now? "Mother!" I call as I lead the officer into the parlor. "An officer is here to see you."

Lucia and the girls sit up as we enter the room.

"Good afternoon, officer," Lucia says, rising to her full height. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"On behalf of the crown, I'm investigating a robbery that occurred at the royal palace during the balls of the fortnight past."

"Why—my daughters and I attended those balls," Lucia says. "But this is the first we've heard of a robbery. Whatever was taken?"

"The twin for this shoe," Buckley says.

Oh, Jesus. Shit. That's my other shoe. I instantly take a step back. The sudden movement turns every eye in the room on me.

"Sorry," I squeak. "Sorry."

"Oh, what a beautiful slipper!" Lucia exclaims. "It looks…awfully familiar now I think on it. I do distinctly recall admiring one very similar to it in appearance in town."

"Where specifically did you see it?"

"At Master Buxton's workshop," Lucia says. Oh, god. My heart just sank out of my asshole. It's there on the rug.

"Master Buxton?" repeats Buckley.

"Buxton," Lucia says. "He's an excellent craftsman…of very refined tastes. He brings things in from all over the world. They say he once made a gown for the late queen, God rest her soul. But when I asked for a price for those shoes he told me it was exclusively for display. He doesn't usually sell the accessories. Only the gowns."

Buckley is writing the name onto a slip of paper. Oh God oh God oh God.

"Thank you for your time, Madame," Buckley says, folding up the paper and tipping his head before walking away.

Oh, God. Tell me there's a letter than needs posting. Tell me we're short on bread. Tell me something—give me a reason to go to town right this instant to shut Master Buxton up before Buckley gets to him. If Lucia gets wind of this then I am going to _die_ before I ever get to turn eighteen.

I look around the room quickly as they settle back into their seats.

"Who would be stupid enough to rob the palace?" asks Lucia as she picks up her needlework.

"And why would the queen purchase a pair of shoes that so resembled the ones on display at Master Buxton's?" asks Anastasia.

"Mother," I say quietly. "We're out of claret. May I run to town and fetch some?"

"Hurry to it," Lucia says, waving me off. "I'll not be eating dinner without claret."

"While you're there," Drisella says. "Tell Master Grimsby to expect me. I'll be right behind you."

Yes, thank you GOD. I curtsey and pick up my cloak, rushing out the door. Officer Buckley's horse hasn't even disappeared from the yard yet.

Here and now is where I'd employ every shortcut I've ever picked up over the course of the last ten years. I never thought I'd need them—when I left the house on errands to town I was never too eager to get back home. But God above, I need them now.

Master Buxton is in the back corner terrifying the tar out of some young seamstress when I rush in. He looks up at me.

"What happened to you?" he asks. "Here to pay off that other sho—"

"SHH!" I take his arm and pull him aside. "Listen to me very carefully," I say. I pause. The seamstress is watching us intently. I drag Master Buxton out of the shop, to the side of the street. "The King's Guards are searching for that other shoe."

Master Buxton's brows fly. "What for?"

"They're looking for me," I tell him, looking around to make sure no one's heard.

"Well, what do you want me to do?" Master Buxton asks.

"They're going to come here any moment now," I say. "And they're going to ask you about it."

"Well, of course I'll have to tell them something!"

"I know," I say. "But just leave my name out of it."

"You're asking me to _lie_ to the King's Guards?"

"If anyone gets word of this, then the King's Guards won't be able to save me from Lucia!" I hiss.

"Well, what am I supposed to tell them?" he asks.

"Just tell them you lost both of the shoes," I say. "Tell them they got stolen—tell them anything, I don't care! Just _don't_ give them my name. Lucia will _kill_ me if she learns that I was at that ball!"

Master Buxton sighs, closing his eyes, then nods.

"Fine," he says. "_Fine_. But that is _it._ That is the last favor you'll be getting out of me. Alright? The end."

And the he inhales sharply, spotting something over my shoulder. I turn around. Oh, no.

Drisella stands less than three feet behind me, her eyes darting between me and Master Buxton. They stop at last at some point between us. She turns and runs back up the road—back home.

Shit.


	20. Chapter 20

___**Edward**_

Right inside the fireplace. That's the worst place to scrub. That's where the soot is practically baked into the stone and it makes it a nightmare to clean. The Havershims are nice though. They give me lemonade around midday. When you've been inhaling soot all day, lemonade tastes like ambrosia.

"Make sure you get that ugly spot by the gray stone," says Mrs. Havershim. "It's a stubborn one."

No kidding.

"I'll do what I can, Madame," I say as the doorbell rings.

"Good afternoon, sir," says a stranger's voice. The Havershims are really loud, friendly people. There's always someone visiting them at any hour of the day. "I am Officer..." and his words are muffled by the sound of my scrubbing. "I am conducting an…of the Crown…me to this town."

"And how may I be of help, officer?" asks Mr. Havershim as I scrub furiously at the spot. It's stuck. Like hair on soap. I couldn't get it off with a crowbar.

"Have you ever seen this before?" asks the officer's voice. Silence. I scrub harder.

"No, Officer, I can't say that I have."

"And your wife? Daughters? Could they have seen it before?"

"No, no. Something like this would be well beyond my means."

"I see. Thank you for your time. Have a good afternoon, sir."

"And to you, officer," and the door is closed.

"What was that about, dear?" asks Mrs. Havershim, turning her head away from me.

"The Crown," says Mr. Havershim. "Apparently they're investigating some sort of burglary at the palace."

"Who on earth would steal from the palace?" asks Mrs. Havershim. "What did the burglar take?"

"A shoe, apparently," says Mr. Havershim. "That belongs to the future queen."

"I had no idea the prince was engaged!" exclaims Mrs. Havershim. "Oh, I wish you'd called me over! I would have liked to get a look at a princess' shoe! Tell me, my dear—what did it look like?"

"It was a splendid thing," Mr. Havershim says. "All covered in sparkle—rhinestone, is it? Well, it was silver in color, maybe four or five inches at the heel, and it glittered in every light. Truly a marvel."

I pause. Now what do I know that fits _that_ description?

As I seem to recall, Miss Ambriella entrusted me with something like that not four days ago. I wonder if she knows the King is looking for it? But it belongs to her, surely. I know her. She's many things, but she's no thief. So that would make _her_ the prince's betrothed, then? Well, to be honest it hardly surprises me. She looks like the sort of girl who grows up and marries a prince. But why would she give it to me, then? My brain doesn't take very long to think of Madame Allendale. But surely Miss Ambriella couldn't possibly think that Madame Allendale is more powerful than the Crown?

Well, who knows what she's thinking? The only thing to do now is ask her.

So it's settled, then. As soon as I've finished off work for the day, I'll go see her at Royce Manor.


	21. Chapter 21

___**Prince Rainier**_

Hunts used to be exciting. So did fencing and charming Miss Elaine Stanton, the girl who arranges the flowers in the Blue Parlor. In fact, a great many things I used to enjoy have grown to become rather lackluster in the past few days. There's a layer of bland, gray dust blanketed over just about everything.

Now the hunts bore me. Fencing is a chore—I can't focus and I lose every single match. Charming Miss Elaine Stanton feels like stepping into a pool of ice water. Everything I used to love has suddenly and inexplicably become painful. Well, perhaps not _inexplicably_. I know exactly what the root of my troubles is. I know why I can't hunt or fight or charm. It's because of her. The girl. My fairy.

I love women. I always have. Not just their…intimate company, but their overall air. They're glorious creatures. They make me smile. But it wasn't until this one girl that I knew what it felt like to look at someone and smile for absolutely no reason. She didn't have to tease it out of me. It was there already. And now she's gone like the winter snows, leaving behind only the memory of cold and sparkling white in her wake.

I eat but I can't taste anything. I inhale but I can't smell anything. I look but I can't really see anything. All day, every day, it's just the fairy the fairy the fairy.

"So this is love?" I ask myself by the window in the hall one day. "I do not want it."

I was wise to stay away from the ledge those two other times. Wiser than I've ever been, though I hadn't known it at the time. I feel like a petulant little child. If she's here, then I'll take the love. But if she's not, then I'll do whatever I have to to drown it out.

But love doesn't work that way and I know it. Regardless of whether or not she's here, I'm still going to wake up every morning thinking of her and I'm still going to go to sleep every night dreaming of her and it hurts to wonder what'll happen if I never see her again so I banish it from my mind. I'm in need of some divine aid.

What's funny is that I haven't honestly prayed for anything since I was maybe seven. That had been around the age when I learned that I could easily charm my way into getting the things I want rather than asking God for them. No wonder this is happening to me now.

I walk slowly to the edge of the hall, pulling back the biggest window and letting the rays of sunlight warm my hands. I look up at the cloudy sky and take a deep breath.

"I've been…sort of foolish," I say. "I do confess I probably could have afforded to come to church a few Sundays a year. And yeah, I admit, I'm not the most _devout_ of your…worshippers. But I'm in love, alright? And being in love is never easy. But now I've gotten myself in a fix because I might possibly never see this girl again. I'd…I'd like to see her again. So if there's some way you can make that happen—that would be great. You just get me to her and I'll take care of the rest. Um…thanks."

That went quite well, if I do say so myself.

"Rainier, what are you doing?" asks Father's voice as he approaches me. I turn and shrug.

"I had a go at prayer, I suppose," I say.

"Finally turned back to God and decided not to burn in Hell?"

"I figured it can't hurt my chances," I say, shrugging again.

"Stay _back_, boy!" yells a guard in the distance. We both look up.

"What's going on over there now?" asks Father. Crowley cranes his neck.

"Some little street urchin has been trying to get in here since yesterday," Crowley says. "Rather persistent little fellow. His determination alone has earned him an audience."

"I _need_ to speak with the prince!" yells a voice. I perk up instantly, then feel my heart drop. It's not her voice. It's a boy's voice. "Please! It's a terrible emergency!"

"Your terrible emergency can be taken up with Captain Rhodes," says the guard.

"But it's about the _girl!_" yells the boy. "It's the—please—"

"The girl?" Father repeats. "Wait…he can't mean…Rainier, wait!"

Father and Crowley hurry to keep up with me as I dash towards the guard.

"Wait!" I say as I take the guard's arm, waving him away. "Wait, let me hear what he has to say." I turn to the boy. He's a small thing. Skinny. His clothes have definitely seen better days. He looks like a coal boy. "What's your name, boy?"

"Edward, Your Highness," he says, panting as he sinks into a deep bow. "Edward Finchley of Amonta."

"You speak of a girl," I say. "Which girl do you think I am searching for?"

"The one who owns this," Edward says, raising a small bundle of old fabric up to me.

"How _dare_ you present such filth to the prince of the realm?" the guard hisses.

I raise my hand. "Shut up," I say quickly, taking the fabric from the boy's hands. There's something familiar about the scent on it. I recognize it instantly. It's her perfume. Just smelling her calms my head. This is something she held. She's a real person. She _touched_ this fabric.

I unravel the fabric slowly. I feel the familiar shape of the shoe before I see it. It glitters in the light, just as its twin does in Captain Rhodes' study on the floor directly below our feet.

"How did you come by this?" I ask.

"She entrusted it to me," Edward says.

"She knows you?"

"Yes, Your Grace," he says.

"She trusts you?"

"She does, Your Grace."

"Then tell me, Edward," I lean in closer, my heart pounding into overdrive. It's not healthy. "What is her _name_?"

"Lady Ambriella, sire," Edward says. "Of House Allendale."


	22. Chapter 22

___**Ambriella**_

This morning, I wake up and tie on my apron for the final time. I head down to the kitchen and help Agnes cook the breakfast, then I help Louisa and Jane set the table, then I serve Lucia and the girls. My hands hurt terribly, but I ignore them. My face throbs, but I ignore it. My sore stomach muscles protest at the slightest movement but I do not care.

Since the day Officer Buckley turned up at my door, everything's been oddly quiet. No one needs to talk much anyways. I do my job perfectly, make them think they've succeeded in breaking me down. And there's no fun in kicking a dead dog, so they just stopped.

My stomach twists into knots of excitement as the day goes on.

"Ambriella, get the post."

"Ambriella, tie my corset."

"Ambriella, fix my skirts."

I don't fucking care. I'll do it all with a smile. But I don't smile. I can't. All I feel is apprehension as the hours drag on.

"We're going to be hosting a dinner here soon," Lucia says to me as I pour out her afternoon tea. "So you'll be heading into market later this week to collect ingredients for the menu. I want to serve a raspberry Bavarian Crème for the dessert course."

"As you say, Mother."

"And Lucifer's been looking a bit under the weather. Take him to the doctor tomorrow and let him have a look at my poor little snuffykins."

"Yes, Mother."

"Drisella said something about a bonnet. Find out what that's all about and sew it for her."

"Yes, Mother."

"And I want you to rewash the linens. They've been looking slightly beige."

"Yes, Mother."

"And once you're finished with that, I have a few other little things."

"Very well, Mother."

I'm not allowed to use gloves anymore. Go figure. I stitch Drisella her bonnet and I wash all the linens and then I end up scrubbing the tubs and washing the roof tiles and cleaning the windows in the sunroom. It's when I'm pouring out the bucket of water when I hear the doorbell ring.

"AMBRIELLA! GET THE DOOR!"

I've never been so quick to obey. I pull the door open.

"Good afternoon, Miss," says the man, tipping his hat. He pauses for a moment, taking in my face. Go ahead, pal. Stare to your heart's content. I would too if I were you. I've been looking absolutely _horrifying_ ever since Lucia and the girls got wind of my attending the ball. "My name is…"

Take your time, buddy.

"Is?" I urge him after a moment.

"William Garrison," he says, straightening himself up and taking off his hat. "I represent Morrison and Associates. Might I request an audience with Lady Allendale?"

"Come right in, Mr. Garrison," I say, holding open the door and letting him inside. I want to dance. I want to hug him. I want to do something, but instead I'm just calm and cool.

I lead him to the drawing room, where Drisella is failing a music lesson and Anastasia is drawing a bouquet of flowers. Lucia sits idly by the window, petting Lucifer.

"Mother," I say. "Mr. William Garrison for you."

"Hello, Mr. Garrison," says Lucia. "Come, take a seat. What may I do for you?"

"I represent Morrison and Associates," he says.

"I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the name," Lucia says.

"It's a bank, Madame," he says. "The bank responsible for the Allendale Estate."

"I see. And what is it that I can do for you?"

"I'm…forgive me, Madame. I arrived here with the understanding that the Lady Allendale I am to meet with is no more than eighteen years old."

Lucia's brow furrows. Drisella stops playing.

"I am Lady Allendale," Lucia says. "The late Lord Allendale was my husband."

"I'm…I'm sorry, Madame," says Mr. Garrison, shaking his head. "But I am here to speak with a _bloodborn _Lady Allendale. I understand there is a trueborn living here named…Ambriella?"

"That would be me," I say, stepping forward. "What can I do for you, good sir?"

"Well, it would appear that today is your eighteenth birthday," Mr. Garrison says.

"It is," I say. "I did not think anyone noticed."

"The terms of inheritance of House Allendale dictate—"

"There is no inheritance," Lucia says, laughing. Though her laugh is uncertain. Nervous. "Her father left no will."

"Her father did not need to," Mr. Garrison says. "The fate of the Allendale fortune is dictated by the rules of House Allendale. These terms state that if—by the eighteenth birthday—the bloodborn Allendale is unmarried and living in Royce Manor, then the estate and all of its details should pass onto that heir. My Lady Ambriella," Mr. Garrison turns to look at me. His eyes travel over my face distastefully. Get _over_ it, bro. "Are you married?"

"No."

"And you are still living here?"

"I am."

"Then as the manager of the Allendale estate, I can safely say that Royce Manor and the Allendale fortune is now yours. Happy birthday, my Lady."

He holds out a certificate for me to sign. Here it is. I always imagined in my mind what the terms of inheritance would look like but here it is. It's old. So many signatures printed on the page. All ending in 'Allendale'. I take the pen from Mr. Garrison's extended hand and sign my name beneath my father's. Mr. Garrison blows on the page to dry the ink and closes the folder.

"Well, then," I say, clapping my hands. "Now that's been settled, why don't we all settle for some tea? Tell me, Mr. Garrison, do you take earl grey this late in the afternoon?"

"Well, I suppose it's never too late for afternoon tea," Mr. Garrison says, smiling at me. I turn and look where my eyes have so desperately wanted to go.

There they are. Frozen in place. Eyes travelling over everything in sight. And those eyes _should_ travel over everything in sight. Because everything in sight is just what they've lost. This house. Those heinous paintings they've had put in over the years. The gowns on their backs. The plush chairs they've been sitting their asses on. Finally, their eyes land on me. They take me in carefully. My hands, my face, my mouth, my torso, my legs, my clothes, my own eyes at last, reflecting everything they've ever done to me.

You are _finished_. You can try to ignore that now, but it just keeps coming back, stinging you over and over again. You know exactly how fucked you are. And there it is. In their eyes. Exactly how I imagined it would be. Not worry. Not anger. Not shame or sadness or anxiety.

Terror.

You _know_ how cruel you were to me. You _know_ it was wrong. You know that _you_ were wrong. And now that you're at _my_ mercy, you're terrified petrified stupefied horrified scared stiff of _me_. What are you trolls afraid of? That your nastiness might have rubbed up on me? That your creative torture tactics over the years might have taught me a thing or two? That I'll be as horrible and ugly as you've been to me?

Of course I will. You reap what you sew, and you girls have sewn a whole lotta misery.

I smile. "I'll get the tea trolley," I say.

I'm floating on fucking air. I get the trolley and dance back to the drawing room. Never have three women been so quiet.

Mr. Garrison smiles and laughs and soon forgets about the state of my face. I fill him up with tea and macaroons and then send him on his way. He's whistling a tune to himself the whole way out the door. It's only when the door is closed that I turn to look back at them.

They're standing there in the foyer, huddled up together like it'll keep them warm. But it won't. Not from my blizzard. My blizzard has been kept at bay for too long. It's time to roll in, and it's coming with the full force of a hurricane.

"This is a curious scene," I say, leaning against the marble pillar by the door and crossing my arms.

Lucia is the first to react. "Miss Ambriella," she says, and she gathers her skirts in her hands and sinks into a bow. Drisella and Anastasia watch her in terror, then they slowly follow suit.

"Oh, there's no need to be so formal with me, Lucia," I say. The name sounds so strange rolling off my tongue. Thinking it, sure, but _saying_ it? That's going to take some getting used to. "'_Mademoiselle_' will do nicely."

Lucia is silent for a moment. "Pardon my…excessive formality, Mademoiselle," she says after a moment. Her words are slow and careful. She's walking on eggshells and she knows it.

"I suppose I can afford to forgive your '_excessive formality_'," I say, shrugging. "I mean, I forgave your excessive '_brashness'_ these past ten years as I awaited my eighteenth birthday."

Her eyes find me slowly.

"I've waited a long time for this day," I go on. "Every Allendale knows the terms of inheritance. But you and those great cows of yours are not Allendales. I'm not entirely sure what it is that you are, though I'm fairly sure it's far lesser than human."

She sinks into a curtsey again. The girls follow her like jack in the boxes. Beauty. True beauty. "A thousand pardons, Mademoiselle," she says.

"Pardons," Anastasia repeats quietly, though her voice is shaky.

"I suppose I can afford to pardon your many crimes against the heiress of House Allendale," I say casually, pushing my weight off the pillar and stepping towards her. "But unfortunately, there are certain…other debts that need to be paid."

"Mademoiselle?" Drisella looks up at me, and she's got to be the only one who has even the slightest tint of regret mixed in with her terror. Not regret because she's feeling guilty, you see, but regret that she got herself into this situation in the first place. What did I tell you? Less than human.

"Debts must be paid," I say. "And you owe House Allendale quite a bit. Notwithstanding everything that you've taken from _me_ personally, every cent that you've spent in the last ten years, you will put back in Allendale coffers. And once you've paid off that debt, then I'll toss you back into whichever gutter you crawled out of. I mean—you do, of course, have the option _not_ to pay the debt. I'm sure Mr. Garrison will be more than happy to ensure your cells are all right beside each other in debtor's prison."

Drisella's eyes close tightly, as if willing herself to wake up from a bad dream. Nope. Sorry, biscuit butt. This ain't a dream. It's the real deal. I've been dreaming about it for a decade, but it's here and you're about to walk into Hell and I'm the fucking devil so welcome to the Seventh Circle.

"And how does Mademoiselle suggest that we go about repaying such a debt?" asks Anastasia with a trembling voice. Just yesterday morning she threw a spoon at my head. Oh, how the tables have turned.

"You can start by licking this floor clean," I say.

Their eyes fall on the pristine marble floors. I tip a nearby flowerpot and watch the soil scatter.

"Whoopsies," I say. "Make sure you get under the rug. And do me a favor, would you, Lucia?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle?" Lucia asks stiffly.

"Concentrate that detergent," I say. "The stronger the mix, the cleaner the floor. I'm off to do a little spring cleaning of my own. Isn't it just so much _fun_ when we all work together?" I dash up the stairs and spin around the halls.

Louisa and Jane stare at me confusedly when I pull the trays from their hands and tip them down the stairs. We listen to the resounding _crash_ and they are incredulous when I take their hands and inform them that I am now going to pay them for standing around doing absolutely nothing.

"But…who will tend to the cleaning, Miss?" asks Jane.

"The cows, of course!" I say happily. "Now come with me, we've got our own special cleaning to do!"

By nightfall, the staff and I have moved all of Lucia and the girl's things out of their rooms and into the shed by the pumpkin patch. By midnight, I've settled all of the staff into the fine guestrooms. By two in the morning, I've settled into my old bedroom. And although I once told myself that I'd never want anything more than I wanted this day, I don't sleep easily at all.


	23. Chapter 23

___**Prince Rainier**_

"An Allendale!" Father says for the fiftieth time. "HA! Well, you certainly chose well, my boy. She'll be perfect!"

Once upon a time, House Allendale was a big fucking deal. They were never kings, but not because they couldn't do it, you see, but because they _wouldn't_. They always preferred to work in the shadows, away from prying eyes, tasting the ambrosia of power without the bitter root of responsibility. We all learned about them in our tutoring lessons as children. There was a lot that could be learned from a family so cunning.

For nearly four hundred years, the Allendales served as advisors to Harrington kings. It's an old noble powerhouse, but in the past few centuries it's fallen out of date. They're no longer much of a political clan, they don't command much besides Royce Manor and a bloated account at Morrison and Associates. But it's been so long since any one of them has done anything remotely interesting that no one even notices them anymore. I think the last anyone cared to check, they were expanding their fortune in the merchant business. I didn't even know they had a daughter. But there it is in the index. The last of the Allendale family—Ambriella Allendale.

"I remember hearing about it a few years back," Father says as the carriage takes us further up the road. "Lord Allendale's death. A terrible carriage accident…just two years after his wife. I'd forgotten they'd had a child…because he was remarried at the time of his death."

"It's that step mother of hers," Edward says. "When I first got word that you were searching for her, I went to see her. But a maid answered the door, told me she wasn't home. I went back the next day, and she told me again. I went back again, and her stepmother answered this time, told me that Ambriella wasn't allowed to see visitors ever again and she slammed the door in my face. They've killed her, I know they have!"

"Relax, dear boy," Father says to him. "They would not be so foolish as to risk going to prison over someone they so openly hate. She might not mean much to them, but she is still an Allendale."

I don't like to imagine whatever Edward is thinking about, so I focus my attention on the road.

Royce Manor is a large, beautiful marble structure. It was built by the first Lord Alexander Allendale some six hundred years ago. I've never actually seen the place in person, only in paintings that I saw as a child. It's so different in person. So regal, so imposing, so _powerful_. Cunning seems to be etched into every single bit of the place. It has all of the beauty and rapture that the Allendales once had. No artist whose work I've ever seen can quite capture the feel of the place.

My fingers drum on my knee anxiously as the mansion grows closer. She's in there somewhere. And seeing her somewhere other than at the palace, in the garden, in the dark of night feels strange. As though seeing her somewhere different makes her seem almost realer.

Ambriella. I'd never have guessed it. But the Allendales always used such gravely regal names. And it fits her. It fits her better than any name I ever considered for her.

If she had been anyone else, then maybe I'd have been able to win her family over on my own. But House Allendale is one of the only ones in history to have willingly refused an opportunity to take the throne. Power doesn't interest them. Neither does money. They've always minded their distance from visible power in favor of working in the shadows, and they've got plenty of money to spare. So now I'm in no small bit of trouble. Which is why Father's attendance is necessary. Having a king arrive with me to recommend my suit might help the situation. My stomach is in knots—not the good sort, either. I'm nervous. Eager. Anxious. Excited. I want someone else to see her, to look at her at the same time as me to somehow validate her existence.

Edward jumps out of the carriage before it's even stopped, hurrying up the front steps and banging on the doors.

"Madame Allendale!" he yells, pounding his fists on the wood repeatedly. "Madame! Open up!"

"Come back here, child!" Father calls out to him as Roger helps him out. I climb out after him.

"What are we to do with the child?" asks Captain Rhodes as he dismounts his horse. "He'll be an impertinent distraction."

Good point. I need to be on this family's good side, and if this stepmother of hers doesn't like him then I'm not likely to get anywhere good with them. The doors are flung open before I can say anything, however, and a girl of maybe twenty is standing before us. A maid, clearly—judging by her apparel.

"Miss…Miss Drisella?" Edward's brows furrow and he steps back, slightly doubtful.

"Who are you?" she asks bitterly. Her eyes fall on us.

"You'll get what you deserve now," Edward says. "I've brought the King and his son here to exact God's justice—where is Miss Ambriella?"

She's silent for a while as she takes us in. This is a maid? To be honest, this girl looks like the prissy sort of thing who'd have people serving on her hand and foot. Doesn't help her case that she's the size of a full grown ox.

"What in the devil…?" Drisella whispers quietly, but not quietly _enough_.

"Enough out of you, boy," Father says. "Where is Ambriella Allendale, girl?"

"She—I—come in," the girl says, tipping the door open further and sinking into a curtsey as we walk inside.

The inside is even more imposing than the outside. Marble walls and magnificent statues and paintings, the wide windows leaving the whole area feeling so _open_. Imposing but welcoming.

"Mother," the girl says quietly to a woman who has just emerged from another room. Another maid, this one much older. This is a strange place. These maids don't look like maids at all.

"What on earth?" the woman stops and takes us in. You know what's funny? There's something oddly familiar about this lady. I swear I've seen her somewhere before.

"Madame Allendale," says Edward. "We've come for Ambriella. What have you done with her?"

"My—I—" she pauses, inhaling deeply, turning away as if to compose herself.

Madame Allendale? Of course. I met her once or twice during the balls. Wait…_this_ is the stepmother? This…maid? But the fat girl called her _mother_. So this is the step family? These are the horrible monsters Edward has been fretting over? Well, if they're working alongside the housekeeping, then I'm fairly sure Ambriella has the situation well sorted.

My heart lifts abruptly at this thought. If she truly has the situation sorted, then I won't have to worry about winning anyone over to earn her hand.

"Where is she, Madame?" asks Father.

Madame Allendale is silent.

"Your king has spoken, Madame," Captain Rhodes says.

"I—of course," Madame Allendale sinks into a curtsey. "A thousand apologies, Your Grace. I shall summon Lady Allendale immediately. Drisella, please escort our guests to the parlor and bring them some tea."

"Yes, Mother."

Drisella leads us into an enormous, sunny room. I spy a grand piano in the distant corner, closest to the window. I inhale and smile to myself. This room smells like her. She was here.

"Stop drumming your fingers like that," Father says, swatting my hand. "You're doing terrible things to my blood pressure."

I chuckle, but it's nervous and shaky. Look at what she's done to me. She's driven me to a nervous breakdown.

"Who?" asks a voice as steps grow steadily closer.

"Guests of the royal variety, my Lady," says Madame Allendale.

"What guests are these?" asks the voice again.

My heart shoots to my throat. I could swallow it if I tried. And I should so I can clearly speak because that's _her_ voice and I'd know it anywhere and I have to inhale for a moment because not too long ago I was thinking that I might never hear it again. I get to my feet and face the door as Madame Allendale walks in, the figure trailing right behind her and pausing by the door.

There she is. Sweet and radiant and beautiful as the day I left her. Her dark hair is glossy and it has small tints of blue that I never got to see in the dark of night, but the sun is up and shining and I can see so much that I never noticed before. Her eyes sparkle even brighter during the day. Here where there are no shadows and no dull moonlight I can see every detail that I've missed and I know that I could spend forever just drinking her in.

And then Father abruptly coughs, and Captain Rhodes inhales sharply, and even Edward is silent, and that's when I _really_ see her.

Her left cheek is an ugly, faded purple. There's a bright red mark on her brow. Her lip is split. Her cheek is cut. One of her eyes has been blackened into a horrible dark circle. It seems that there's only a few inches of skin on her face that isn't covered by some sort of abnormal color.

She comes forward slowly. There's a horrible limp to her walk, but whatever is slowing her down seems concentrated to her abdomen, not her legs.

"Miss Ambriella!" Edward rushes forward to her. She tears her eyes away from me to focus on him as he wraps his arms around her waist. "I thought they'd killed you!"

"Shh," she says to him, running her hair out of her face. That's when I notice her hands. Her fingers are cut from fingertip to palm. They're bright, angry red and shining in the sunlight. Her neck has a sick red weal along the side. My stomach has to catch my heart before it hits my tailbone. It's her, no doubt about it. But…how could this happen?

"I knew they'd hurt you," Edward is saying. "I knew they'd try to kill you! Look, I've brought the Crown—I've brought them here to save you!"

And her eyes return to us again. She holds herself steady by gripping Edward's shoulder as she curtseys to us.

"Please—" I raise my hands. "Don't do that."

She pauses and rises again. "Please do be seated my prince…your Grace."

"Heaven and Earth," says Father as we all sit down. She joins us slowly. "What happened to you, child?"

"Nevermind it, Your Grace," she says, waving it off casually. "It's over and done with. To what do I owe this great honor?"

No one says anything, but every eye in the room instantly falls on me.

"Walk with me," I say to her, standing up and taking her hand.

She looks around the room, then unlatches Edward's arms from her torso and lets me walk her out.

She seems to lead the way to the backdoor on the other end of the foyer, guiding us out to a splendid expanse of green hedges and high growing peach trees. I see no orchids here.

"I didn't think you'd find me," she says after a while.

That's when I snap. I turn and pick her up and hold her close, inhaling her, feeling her weight, reaffirming over and over again that she's not some phantom, that she's real and she's here and people have seen her and spoken to her so she's not something my mind made up to torture me. Her breathing gets heavy so I have to slacken my grip, but I don't dare let go because suddenly everything that I've been imagining since the day I met her is now possible and I can _see_ it already. I can see the rest of our lives together. And I wonder if she can see it, too.

"I told you that I would," I say. "I told you I'd sail an ocean, cross a forest, cut through an army like a knife through butter…I told you that I'd find you. And now that I have…you will be my princess."

I lower her slowly, letting her find her footing before I release her. Her face is twisted. Not in pain. Not the physical sort, anyways. She's uncomfortable. Thrown off. I've caught her off guard. My smile slowly starts to fade.

"It's not that—" she pauses, inhaling and looking around. "It's not that I'm not glad to see you again—I _am_—but—you see—it's just that—"

"What?" I ask. "What is it?"

"It's—my Prince—"

"Rainier," I correct her quietly, but I don't like where this is going and I hope she can see that on my face.

"I—_Rainier_—" she inhales again. "I can't—you can't—be here…right…now."

What?

"Why not?" I ask her. "I told you that I would come."

"I know you did," she says. "But I…I never _dreamed_ you'd actually make good on that."

"Of course I would…what—you thought I'd just forget you?"

"I suppose that I did," she says.

"Well, how could I with that view of the orchid bush right outside my window?"

She sighs and it feels like it's much, much heavier than she can carry. Now that I see her in proper light, it looks like her horrid condition is far worse than just physical injury. Her clear eye has a bag under it. Her skin is pallid and sickly pale. Was she always like that? How could I not notice it? What's the matter with her?

"I…can't…I can't marry you, Rainier," she says.

"Why?" I ask. "If not because of family, and not because of a husband, then _why_?"

"I'm sorry," she says. "It's…complicated."

"I'm sick of hearing that!" I say, taking a step back. "I _love_ you and I came here to tell you that—I came here to _save_ you!"

"I found a way to save myself," she says. "But thank you for coming."

"Explain this to me," I say, taking her arms and pulling her close. My head is so cloudy and heavy with frustration and confusion and she's _not_ helping. "What is going on around here?"

"The terms of inheritance," she says. "I've been waiting ten years for my eighteenth birthday to finally take all of this. Royce Manor, the Allendale fortune, all of it. Ten years I went through _Hell_ to take back everything that belongs to me. And now I have it. But If I marry you, then I won't be Lady Allendale anymore. Then I'll be Princess Harrington, and Princess Harrington can't live at Royce Manor. Princess Harrington can't be an Allendale, don't you see? I am an _Allendale_. I belong at Royce Manor. It's not that I can't marry you—I can't marry _anyone_."

"Can't or won't?" I ask her evenly.

"Pick one," she says. "I've waited too long and lost too much to throw it all away now that I finally have it. For something as silly and stupid as _love_, no less—"

"Is that how you see me?" I ask. "Silly and stupid?"

"No, I see you as a man with hope," she says. "I see a good person…with true potential. You'll make a fine king one day, but I cannot be your queen. I'm terribly sorry."

"No, you're not," I say.

Here it is. The side of love that I _knew_ I never wanted. The side that takes root inside of you, the side that feels dark and heavy and bitter. The side that feels mean and ugly and relentlessly beats on you, churns your stomach, makes you feel like you've swallowed green rot. The side that _hurts_.

"So you'd rather stay here," I stumble back. "Just to clarify—you'd rather stay here alone for the rest of your life and make them miserable just to get even? Then who the _hell_ did I meet with at the palace? Who was that girl that you pretended to be?"

"I was never pretending," she says to me. "I swear, it was me—it was. But that girl would never have married you, either, because that girl went to the palace with that very same drive in her."

"Look at you," I say, brushing a lock of hair out of her face. "Have you _seen_ yourself? Are you seriously telling me that you want to face them every day for the rest of your life after _this_?"

"You think this is the worst?" she asks, and her voice has taken on this new strength. Anger. "You think this is it? This is just what they did to me when they learned I'd gone to the balls. They've done so much worse. They've _stolen_ from me, and I'm not leaving until I've taken back everything they've robbed me of."

"What have they taken? What that I can't give you?"

"Things that the Crown cannot repay, Rainier," she says. "They have taken things far more valuable than money or jewels or paintings or gowns. They have taken my home. They have taken my peace of mind. They have taken my joy and my youth and my hope and my worth. I feel as though my very _soul_ is hidden here somewhere, ripped from me by them and buried away. And I will remain here until I find everything they've taken. And if that takes the rest of my life, then so be it. Please understand me, I cannot go with you."

"I—" I bite down on my bottom lip. "I'm the _prince_! I can give you _anything_ they've taken! You can find it again!"

"Being your princess won't change anything, Rainier," she says. "You can't honestly believe that waving your royal wand will just magically fix everything."

"I don't know what to believe," I say. "But you're not who I thought you were. That much I believe."

"Which is why I did not want you to find me," she says. "I knew I'd disappoint you."

I'm worse than disappointed. I'm hurting. And it feels so strange to be the one walking away from her this time instead of the other way around, but it doesn't feel wrong. Not right now.

"I'm hardly surprised," Father says on the way home. "Allendales never really could be persuaded to wear a crown."


	24. Chapter 24

_** Ambriella**_

Louisa likes to plant peach trees, as it happens. And Jane likes to play the harp. I hate the harp, but I let her play it when she wants to. _Someone_ should have things go their way, right? And after Rainier's wreck of a visit, I suppose I could do with any kind of distraction that I can get, even if it's to stop in the hallway to consider how much I hate the harp.

Stupid, simple tasks that I'd have done once upon a time to clear my head are a thing of the past now. The grand piano is gathering dust in the parlor by the staircase but I won't let anyone near it, because just a week ago when Lucia was cleaning it, she hit one of the keys and the sound made me homicidal. I had to shut the thing closed and no one's gone near it ever since.

No one's said a word to me since the prince and his royal company left Royce Manor. I haven't spoken much to anyone, either. Aside from Edward. He comes by after he's done with his work every now and again. When he comes, I make him a fruit tart or a meat pie and we walk through the gardens together. He always asks, just when he's about to leave, 'are you alright, Miss Ambriella?'. Sweet kid. But I'm all out of patience for sympathy.

I haven't been able to sleep ever since I moved back into my room on the night of my eighteenth birthday. I moved my stuff back into the attic, but surprise surprise—I can't sleep there either. No matter where I lay my head, it doesn't make a difference because my head spins and spins like an old top and when it stops at last I just feel angry and confused.

I've done it. I've been patient. I've been kind. I've gotten my reward. I've taken back Royce Manor and I've taken back Allendale gold and those disgusting worms are going to spend the rest of their lives paying for what they did to me. It's exactly as it should be, isn't it? So what's wrong? Why is it that the joy of victory only seemed to last that _one_ day? I've finally succeeded—there had been days in the past decade when I had all but lost hope completely—but it's finally here and I've done it. I should be happy. I have _everything_ that I wanted. I'm out of the dark of the woods, finally here in the sunlight. But the sunlight feels no brighter than the days in the woods. If anything, I'd be inclined to say that it feels even _darker_.

It's maybe a week into the new regime when I see a memory. Not of Lucia or the girls. Of _them_. Of Father and Mother and life here before any of this came down on me. It first happened at dinner with Louisa and Jane a few weeks ago. Louisa had thought it would be good fun to tip her wineglass onto the tablecloth for the sake of watching Anastasia nearly burst into tears. And I had been tempted to laugh, even though it wasn't the slightest bit funny, but I had been smiling with this deep rooted inner joy when I saw it. Mother was standing there by the window whispering something sweetly into Father's ear.

What oh what would they say if they could see me now? I've done everything right. I've followed all the rules. I was good. I was nice. I was kind. I was patient. I was everything that I had to be. And now I'm everything that I've _wanted_ to be and still somehow everything feels wrong.

I see them again in the halls and they just walk by me, chatting together, laughing together. They were happy here. Happy, beautiful old fools. I suppose that's probably the nicest thing a person can be, really. Just a simple, happy idiot. My parents were simple, happy idiots. I'm not. I'm smart and I'm convoluted and I'm not happy. But oh—what I wouldn't give to be an idiot.

I see them again in the garden. Mother liked to lie back in the grass and stare at the clouds. She does that now every time that I look out my window. It's the first thing that I see and now I don't go out into the garden anymore.

Father liked to sit in the study with his brandy and books. He does it now every time that I go in there and now I don't go in there anymore.

The halls slowly begin to fill with memories as Mother and Father make their presence known all around me, and soon I can't leave my bedroom.

It's not a long while before I realize that it's too bright in my room, and that's when I start to put up covers to block out the windows. No sunlight, no garden view, no memories.

It's early autumn when I see it. A girl, little and pure, running into Mother's arms. They've finally broken through the barricade. Mother smiles, kisses her little girl. She turns her head, and her eyes find me. _My _eyes.

When was I ever that happy? I can't even remember what it felt like. I can't remember what Mother looked like. I can't remember what home was like, it feels so long ago. All I can think of anymore is how much I _hate_ the past years of my life, how desperately I wish I could forget them. How much I _hate_ Lucia and Anastasia and Drisella and how badly I want them to suffer.

I throw my teacup at the memory. It doesn't do a thing and that only makes it worse. I throw the tray out next. I hate this stupid china. Why did I bother keeping it safe all these years? Why didn't I just let Anastasia break it all that day? It's not even that _pretty_. It's just old. Old and expensive and empty—like everything else in this house.

Lucia has the exclusive duty of cleaning my room. When she comes in tonight and sees the results of the temper tantrum I've thrown, she looks ready to faint. I turn to face her, watch her face fall and her spirit drop just a little more, and I have to swallow back the bile that rises in my throat.

"Get out," I hiss at her. She closes the door behind her.

She doesn't come back to clean my room again. I lock the doors and I don't open them. I hate her so much that now—when I finally have the power to make her as miserable as she once made me—I can't even bring myself to _look_ at her. I don't care if she's outside my door living her life as happily as she always has, as long as she doesn't show me her face.

No one talks about Rainier again. Edward knows better than to bring him up. How disappointing that prince turned out to be. I should have known he'd turn tail and run as soon as he learned the truth.

And you know what sucked the most? He didn't even _try_ to understand what it is that I've been dealing with. He didn't even _try_ to understand what it is he's asking me to do. How long have I been waiting for this? I _told_ him, and he _saw_ how badly I got hurt and he's _seen_ what they've done to me and he still brushed it off like it was something I could just _turn my back on_.

A true prince of fools. Dodged a bullet there.

But there have been treacherous moments when I've imagined what would have happened if I'd gone with him that day. I would be there right now, probably walking through that garden with him, probably telling him upfront that I only said I liked orchids to get on his nerves and that my real favorite flower is actually the buttercup. I'd probably be reading through every drama in his oversized library. I'd probably have done lots of things.

But here I am, here where I'm meant to be, and nothing is right. And that pure little girl is still looking at me expectantly. There's some strange unmet disappointment in her eyes. What did she want back then? I can't even remember. What did she dream of? I'm not too sure. But she's _me _and the fact that something in me seems to have withered is magnified by the fact that I don't know this girl at all.

I can't handle the force or the questions or the accusations in her gaze. I pull open the doors to the balcony and climb up onto the railing, staring out at my little queendom. I can still feel her eyes penetrating the skin on my back, asking me over and over again. Where did you go wrong, Ambriella? When did you get so weak that you allowed all that misery to consume you? When did you go from being a perfect little fool to this _thing_?

I've chosen family over love. That is the choice I'll stick with. Rainier doesn't _understand_. He never will. No one will.

Look out at your world, Ambriella. You're the queen of this world, the only person left in it and you'll be here with these memories and these people and this empty shell that you have become forever. This house will guide you just as it guided that little girl once, and it will protect you just as it is protecting you now and one day in a month or maybe a year or maybe ten you'll be strong enough so that no one can disappoint you. Not Rainier for being an idiot, not your parents for leaving you all alone, not Lucia for being a callous bitch, not _anyone_. The world has presented you with one helluva problem, but you are strong enough to be your _own_ solution.

But until then you've got a long road ahead of you. It's a dark, shady, lonely road, but it'll end one day, like all roads do. All roads, happy or sad—end somewhere. And yours will end here, in Royce Manor, just where it started. Someday.


	25. Chapter 25

_** Prince Rainier**_

I wish I could have just pulled that orchid bush up by the roots and thrown it over the cliff into the sea, watched the clear blue water swallow it deep. But Father won't hear of it, he's grown too fond of it, wondering why we never had an orchid bush here to begin with and now every morning when I look out my window that's the first thing I see. I can't stand it. I have my window covered one day and I don't take that cover off.

But in a way, having the cover on is only making it worse because now I look at that blocked up window and I remember why it's covered and the impact hits me hard. Leaving my room isn't an easy task, though. Too many people out and about and I'm not interested in talking to anyone. Just the girls. They're still here, still magical, but recent events have made them sort of lackluster.

"I don't see why you don't just pull down that cover," says Vivian, sitting up groggily and rubbing her eyes. "Get some sunlight in here in the mornings—it's so _depressing_." She wraps her arms around my waist, hugging tightly. "You should eat something," she says. "You're dropping weight."

"Don't talk," I say.

I hate the sound of her voice. It was one of many things that have been _off_ in my life. Vivian's voice is too high, nothing like _hers_. But you have to compromise somewhere, don't you? She's the closest match to _her_ that I've found so far. Same hair, same skin type, same height, roughly the same features.

"Alright then," she says. "What shall I do?"

"Go back to bed," I say. "I'll be there soon."

She clicks her tongue irately, but she obeys. I'm left again by the window, and I know I'll do it again, what I always do. I pull the cover back just a peek and try to keep my eyes trained on the water just ahead of the grounds, but my eyes catch a flash of that horrid bush right before they land on the water.

Look at that water, Rainier. Look at that clear blue mass of nothing. I can smell it from here, I can feel the breeze it brings. Don't drag your eyes back to that bush down below. Though my eyes betray me and trace the outline of that awful flower in the moonlight and I have to pull the cover back into place so I don't do something stupid, but I can already feel my chest clenching. I sink to the floor and huddle my knees to my chest, burying my face in my arms and taking deep breaths. It's surprisingly effective.

I used to be so excited to wake up and look at that fucking bush. Now it's just sucking the life out of me. How easy life was before when I could just pop open my window and smile at the world and breathe in that salty sea air. Clear blue waters, sunny skies, breezes and the giggles of a nightly companion or two. When did it get so complicated?

It turns out that love _hurts_. It hurts more than it did the two times before. Father had been right—it's _dark_ down here in this deep, bottomless abyss. Except it doesn't feel bottomless. It feels like I've hit the bottom and it's so dark I can't see my hands in front of me.

She might be a beauty and she might be a phantom and she might be the most ethereal puzzle I've ever seen but she's a still a terrible fool of a person. To think that all this time the only thing that was barring me from her was her own reservation. She'd walk away from me—from _us_ and from the prospects I represent—for a life of spinsterhood in that big marble house to watch her stepfamily roll in the mud and bark for her amusement? What about that makes sense?

But why am I surprised? Nothing about her ever made any sense to me. I suppose that was why I was so enraptured by her. I mean—_think_, Rainier. You've loved women your whole life…why? Because of their air, of their life, of their natural glow and their laughs and their sweetness and their joy and their charm. That's what drew you in to her—the fact that she had _none_ of those. She had no such life, nor such a glow, nor a laugh or sweetness or joy or charm. She is the _opposite_ of what you love about those fantastical creatures and you should have been repulsed by her but all you can do whenever you're around her is drink her in because those fantastical, magical creatures are so free and happy and pure and she's so _not_. She's a caged, wounded bird. There's no joy in her, no love and no glow and no light. She's a disaster. She rolled into your life with the force of a tempest and left nothing but destruction in her wake.

You should have stepped back that day. You should have stepped back and walked away and maybe then you could have kept your peace. Now you're stuck here in this deep, dark hole and the world around you is still spinning but it doesn't feel like you'll ever move along with it again. Because the sad truth is that this love of yours is toxic, poisonous, noxious, lethal, venomous, mephitic and that monster is dangerous, hazardous, perilous, menacing, treacherous, malicious and you were too innocent, naïve, immature, infantile, juvenile, unripe to see that it was going to consume you—that _she_ would consume you, leave you bitter and empty and heavy and sore wondering if you'll ever be able to pull back this cover and let in the sunshine again.

So close your eyes and dream until then, Rainier. Dream of clear blue waters, of sunny skies, of a high tide that brought her to your door once before. Think of the days that you loved her, not the moment you lost her—the moment you realized that you never _had_ her. Because the moment you lost her is too gray, and the moment you realized you never had her is too black, but the days that you loved her were bright and clear and they could be your strength down here in this hole. Think of rosy cheeks and diamond eyes and the ever present, delicately fluttering life in her voice. Remember her as she _was_, not as what she's become.

Though it won't be easy. Because I can still see it when I close my eyes. I can still see a battered face, bleeding hands, bruises and cuts and no forgiveness. Though I suppose if I think on it—if only for a moment—I would not have forgiven it so easily either.

It's that moment—just that _one_ moment that I think on it—that makes it all clear to me.

How many times has she been beaten like that in her life? How much more than just beatings has she taken? I know what they took—her joy and her youth and her hope and her worth—she said it herself. But did I really _understand_ that? Or did I just _hear_ it?

Her very _soul_ lingers there in that house somewhere, waiting to be found. Those were her words. And then it seems to click in my mind.

I can't give her back her joy. I can't give her back the years they've taken from her. I can't give her back her hope and her innocence and her happiness. Because I'm not the one who lost it in the first place, and these are things that a crown just can't give you. It's hard and it hurts, but nothing she does or the _way_ that she does it is ever easy or simple, so why should _this_ be any different?

And if she's wanted that house for so long, and she's wanted to be an Allendale for so long, then why would she ever give it up to be with me?

I lift my head and look up, peering into the dark. There's some distant sense kicking in, old words I'd heard not too long ago and had been too stupid to pay attention to them.

'_For some girls out there—a very rare few—being a prince isn't good enough.'_

I can't just be a prince. Because she doesn't want that. To be honest with myself, I'm not entirely sure _what_ it is that she wants. But I _do_ know that whatever it is, it's not me as I am now. I think back to that day at Royce Manor, with the grand golden carriage and the king as a witness to a suitor and the piles of diamonds and gold I had sent to the apartments I planned to be hers. How stupid I was to think that would sway her. It was probably God's way of punishment—for only turning to ask in such a haughty way.

I turn back to the cover, pull it away, and look out at the pale moon.

"I'm not as persuasive as I thought I was," I say into the night. "And it turns out I'm not as tempting as I thought I was, either. It turns out that I'm a lot of things I didn't know I was—most of them not very good. I don't know what it is that she wants, but…I can only ask that maybe I can be something she'll _consider_. That perhaps You can help me to understand her, or help me to change her mind….Amen."

I can't help but laugh at Father's words. He knew. I was bound for failure and he knew it before I did. He knew _her_ before I did.

"Aren't you coming to bed, my prince?" Vivian's voice cuts through the darkness. I had forgotten she was even here.

"No," I say. "I have to go."

It's clear to me now, what I have to do. Some ray of clarity pierces through the dark as I realize that what I loved about women that she never had—that lack of any sort of life or magic—makes her feel more alive and magical to me than any of them ever could have.


	26. Chapter 26

_**Ambriella**_

Mother and Father like to wake me up to the cheery sounds of laughter and exclamations of love to their little darling daughter. I have to sleep with my pillow pulled over my face in some attempt to block out the sounds, but it's there, drilled into my skull, etched inside my _mind_ where I can't ever hope to escape it.

But today, I get a rare moment of peace when I awaken from a night of half-slumber. The sky is barely rosy. It's so early that the sun hasn't had a chance to warm the air yet.

"My Lady," Lucia's voice says, her hand tugging at one of my sheets. I blink at her. "You have a visitor."

I don't even care how early it is. I sit up and get changed, then head downstairs to the drawing room. It's been a while since I left my room. The memories haven't changed. They still play as I walk past them, watching, waiting, ignorant of what they've done to me—what they're _still _doing.

Drisella is lighting a candelabra to brighten the room a bit until the sun is high enough to do that on its own. I squint through the air at my visitor.

Oh, give me a break. Haven't I had enough disappointment for a lifetime?

"Welcome back to Royce Manor, my prince," I say, sinking slightly.

He raises his hand. "Don't do that," he says. "Please," he adds quietly.

No complaints here. The remains of the beating I took are mostly gone, but it still hurts my side to curtsey.

"Shall I ring for some tea?" I suggest, gesturing to the sofa. He shakes his head.

"No," he says. We're quiet for a moment.

"Have you had breakfast?" I ask. "Shall I send for something?"

"No," he says again, and this tiem he's almost breathless with anticipation.

I have no patience for this.

"What are you doing here, Rainier?" I ask him.

"I…I understand it now," he says. "What it is that this all means to you. And I know now that it won't be an…an _easy_ sacrifice to make."

Oh, God. Here we go again.

"Rainier—" I start, sinking into a seat on the armchair.

"And I know a lot of things now that I didn't know before," he adds, coming forward to kneel in front of my seat. "And I want _you_ to know what it was that I saw in you those nights. It's the same thing I see now. I saw your eyes—no one in the world has eyes like yours—and there was _so much_ they held. I felt like I was trying to read constellations in them. And I look at you and I can see that whole road you've walked, how far you've come, how much it's changed you. I know that the girl I met at those balls—the girl who left me this—" he holds up my shoe. It glitters in the dull light and it's almost pretty in a sad sort of way but I don't care anymore. "She's the same girl that you were wanting to find somewhere in these halls. They didn't take your hope. Not _all_ of it. Because I still saw some there in you during that fortnight. And they didn't take _all _of your joy because you were happy there with me. You _were_. That's why you came back every other night. You want to stay here because you think they destroyed you but you can't see yet that they _didn't_. Not entirely. You're still here. You survived them. But if you linger and let this eat away at you, then they _will_ have destroyed you. Because you _let_ them."

I don't like hearing the words but I hear them anyways. Why is it that this dumbass still sees fit to fight for me? Just when I'd accepted that the only person I could count on to be in my corner was _me_?

"And I'm not going to pretend to understand what it was like for you here," he continues. "But I can tell that you've maybe lost a little part of yourself getting here. That all the people who loved you have gone from the world, so now you believe that no one can love you again, so you hide it away like you're afraid it'll disappoint you. But the first person who stopped caring about you was _you_. And if you want to be able to take a single step forward—if moving on is even a _part_ of your grand plan—then you have to love yourself. And a part of you _was_ willing to take that step—to move on—because you came back to the ball that last night. So a part of you loves me…which means that a part of you still loves yourself.

"I can't tell you what it is you'll find if you stay here. And I can't ask you to leave it behind or forget it. All I can ask is that you find it in you to _forgive_ it—for your own sake. If you do or if you don't…it's up to you. And when you decide…I suppose I'll still be where I always am. Still hoping that maybe you'll find it in you to accept me as I am. As a man new to this world that you know, still…still _learning_."

Well, he's got a lot to learn. That much is certain.

"I'm not asking you to choose royalty over revenge," he says. "But do you think that maybe…you might be willing to choose _love_ over it instead?"

I can't hear any more of this nonsense, but lucky me—he doesn't seem interested in saying any more, either. He kisses my forehead and leaves me there in the silence of the house and the dull light of the morning. It's not until I hear his horse gallop away that I see that little girl looking out at me from beside the door, and the disappointment and disdain in her eyes is enough to make me pick up the candelabra and toss it at her. It hits the opposite wall with a resounding _crash_, and I'm left there in ruin as half the house comes to assess the damage.

"Are you alright?" Louisa asks.

"What happened?" asks Jane.

I run out past the watching figures because _she's_ still looking at me, looming ever closer, silently judging me for finally taking back everything I've ever wanted, for taking back what's _mine_.

Mother and Father spin and dance and sing through the halls and it makes me nauseous just to hear the sounds. The doors to my bedroom clang shut behind me and I'm left in the pale light again.

Mother sits by the vanity, brushing out her little girl's hair, and that little girl looks at me with eyes so scornful and ashamed that I can't even throw anything at her. I just turn away, throw a sheet over the vanity, roll up into a corner and hug my knees to my chest, shield myself from everything around me because I know that _no one else will_. No one else will protect me from what evil lingers in this house. No one else will save me from the memories. No one else will be able to understand the bitter, horrible truth—that no matter how hard I try, I'll never be able to convince anyone to see Royce Manor as I see it. Because how I see it is cruel and cold and empty and haunting.

This is a place beyond light, beyond hope, beyond joy and beyond good. No prayers are answered here at Royce Manor because we are in a place beyond prayer itself. There isn't enough of that foul detergent in the _world_ to wash the misery out of this house.

I can only thank God that Father and Mother didn't get to see what it has become—that they're dead dead _dead_ in the ground and didn't live long enough to watch their fairy tale turn so sour. That they didn't live long enough to see their perfect little angel morph into this empty, tired, vile little _thing_ that carefully waited her entire life so she could sit here and wallow in the shadows and be shaken awake in the night by the ghosts of memories past until she's standing on the railing of her balcony.

I look down and my stomach gives an odd lurch as I realize that I'm doing it again—standing on the railing, looking out at my little queendom. I can see the forest beyond the garden—the world beyond my queendom. I'm not sure where that world has gone and left me behind but dammit I _miss_ it now.

She hates me, that girl in the memory. She hates me and what I have come to represent in her eyes and she hates what I let her turn into. She hates me. _I_ hate me.

'_Ambriella'_, she asks me. _'When did you allow your hatred to become stronger than you?'_

This is Royce Manor. I am an Allendale. Allendales belong here. No matter how much it hurts.

Those eyes are still on me, and it takes every last bit of fight I have left in me to pull back, to turn away, to keep my feet planted to the railing instead of taking that last easy step that could just make it all stop.


	27. Chapter 27

_** Prince Rainier**_

Everything hurts, but it's not a guilty type of hurt. I arrive back home and stumble into bed and I know that I won't have any trouble falling asleep because it's done. I've done everything that I can, said everything that I could say, and now it's all up to her.

Father looked surprised when I rode back in earlier, as if he was expecting her to be there with me. But then he just smiled. He gets it. How extraordinarily lucky I am to have a father who _gets it_.

How extraordinarily lucky I am to have finally gotten it myself.

I can't sleep in this bright morning sunlight, so I put the cover back on my window and pull the curtains shut on my bed, lying there in the dark and willing sleep to come.

She looked horrible. Worse than I've ever seen her. There are no more injuries in evidence, but she still managed to look worse. Her bags had bags. Her eyes were dull. Her skin is pallid and sickly pale. Even her hair seems to have suffered. Something in her is withered and slipping away. She doesn't want my help, and I know that I couldn't give it to her.

How funny it is, this love of mine. I knew there were only two sides to it—paradise or burning Hell. But no one told me about that gray area in between—that blank, empty nothing that stretches out before my feet—where you're hurt but untouched by hurting. Whatever it is that she should choose, this love is going to stay, is going to grow, is going to thrive and I don't mind it anymore.

So it's not a toxic, poisonous, noxious, lethal, venomous, mephitic love that I'm carrying. It may have felt that way before—to any ignorant mind it would have—but it doesn't anymore. And she's not dangerous, hazardous, perilous, menacing, treacherous, malicious. And I suppose that when I was still innocent, naïve, immature, infantile, juvenile, unripe I was physically closer to her but that was all that had mattered because I had been too idiotic to see that my Ambriella was a million miles away.

But I _get_ it now. I understand. She makes so much sense to me and I see her and this love in a way that I could never have seen it if I had caught her that last day when she ran.

I had to lose her so I could learn how to really love her. The irony should hurt, but it just doesn't. It just makes me laugh into the dark quiet space. Because if I hadn't lost her, then I would never have understood her and now that I have understood her she seems closer to me than she's ever been.

I saw it, just now, when I looked in her eyes. It was there. A flash from the past. I saw the girl she was, the hope and the joy and the youth and the worth that she's lost. I see the woman that she's turned into. I could never have dreamed it was possible for someone to have come so far all on their own, but Ambriella is _strong_. She's strong enough to overcome anything, and I know that she'll overcome this. I know she'll overcome this and that somehow—when she's ready—this love will endure.

I don't _feel_ like I lost her. I feel like I've found her. I feel like I've found some great hidden truth long since forgotten. Because this love of ours is alive and steadily beating and regardless of what she chooses to do with it now that I've placed it in her hands it's left a permanent mark on the both of us. It's free and breathing soundly and sparkling like a pair of diamond eyes, glowing in the dark, and no matter what comes now I know that this love will be my strength to face every day and night that I'll have left in the world.

Father was right. It's dark down here in this abyss. The darkest place to be. But I wouldn't go anywhere else. So I'll just pull back the curtains a little and let in some sunlight and smile at that orchid bush thinking of the day that she'll join me here and we can waltz through this dark, deep abyss together.

"You're looking a few inches taller than the last time I saw you," Father says when I head down to breakfast.

I _feel_ a few inches taller. And if it were up to me, I'd be camping out at Royce Manor being tall for the both of us, but I know things better now. This last step is one she'll have to take alone.

She's a shooting star, but even stars burn out and fall. We have a lot to learn, but I'm not going to stop looking up. She's going to make it. She's come too far—been too strong—to give up on herself now.


	28. Chapter 28

_** Ambriella**_

Seventeen times through the night I think I can see her trying to talk to me. Seventeen times I have to splash my face with cold water and convince myself that she's not real. But oh—how much more sense would it make if she was?

I'm heavy, and not in the good way. I swore to God and myself and the ghosts that surround me now that I'd shove Lucia's head into her asshole when I had the power to. I still want to. But what good has it done? I'm here now in this big empty house and…what happens now?

Come on, Ambriella. _How_ did you fail to think this far ahead?

Edward tucks into the raspberry tart I've placed before him. He's gaining weight. I can tell because he keeps adjusting his trousers like they don't fit him right. It's these pies he's been eating. Look at this kid. You've changed his life. Why can't someone come along and change _yours_?

But someone has. Rainier has. And so has this boy. How stupid could you have been not to see how they've changed everything for you? Edward is probably going to live to at least thirty now that he's not as risk of starvation.

And Rainier…maybe he's become a better person now because of this. I know what I saw in him when he came to see me last week. Something has grown within him, some new hope and it feels like he's going to be fine.

So what about me?

Well, what have I done? I've been patient and good and exactly as I should have been. I've gotten what I wanted, but it's not at all how I thought it would be. But now that I think on it, I never imagined what it would be like once I had this place. All I could ever think about was claiming it as mine. And by this point it's become too corrupted and polluted with this awful hate for me to be able to stand it anymore. Rainier was right—I'd been so obsessed with making it this far that I've lost myself getting here. Every slap hardened me, every crack of a whip froze me, every cruel word and tossed heirloom and soiled memory poisoned me and now I'm not even sure what's left of me.

Maybe when you're floating through the in-between space once your life's mission has been accomplished, it's easy to look to the future. But what kind of person doesn't at least _glance_ back? I glance back every day. I glance back at the space in the hallways by the painting of Madame Delbois where Father and Mother used to hide their love letters to each other, but I notice now that in the past few years I've only ever seen that space as the place where Lucia first hit me.

I glance back at the drawing room where Mother used to arrange her flowers, but it's been so long since I've seen it as anything other than the place where Anastasia first splashed tea on me.

I glance back at the garden where Mother used to read, but how long has it been since I've actually remembered her reading there instead of planting pumpkins to piss off Lucia?

This house stopped being home to me a long time ago, when I stopped seeing it as a sacred place with my memories in it and instead started seeing it as the ultimate prize, my tool to destroy my enemies.

It seems like Lucia and Anastasia and Drisella have lost the game at last, but no one's lost more than I have. What's worse—I feel like I lost it all by myself. I didn't even need their help.

Here stands the ever great Lady Ambriella Allendale, and all she commands in this queendom of hers is a hate she can't carry anymore.

I know that I'll never be able to forget it, much less if I'll ever _forgive_ it, but there's a truth to Rainier's words. There is a promise of a better way of life.

So maybe I've been wrong to handle myself like this all along. And it's not easy to admit it—not even to myself—but it's the truth. And admitting it to myself isn't even a big deal. But to back away for a minute and see my reflection in the mirror, to really _look_ at myself, to see how much I've changed—_that's _a big fucking deal.

Okay, Ambriella. So you went on a hateful, angry tangent. So you didn't turn out to be the perfect, happy little girl that Mother and Father would have wanted you to be. So you lied and you plotted and you waited for a dark miracle. So you stumbled. I guess everyone stumbles on the tracks every now and again. So you turned a little sour. So you hid from the light and what relief it could bring you because your hate grew too strong when you were the most afraid of being weak.

But you protected the name of your family. And you made yourself a blessing to Edward and Louisa and Jane. And you haven't been completely destroyed and you haven't completely lost hope and you haven't completely been depleted of willpower. Because if you had, then you'd have taken that step off the railing. And you didn't. You're still here. You're still breathing. You still have some chance to make yourself better.

Don't be mistaken though, Ambriella. It's not going to be an easy road. Because forgiveness isn't easy to do and letting go is the hardest lesson that life can teach you. It's easy to hate. It's easy to let anger and pain and grief consume you—easier than you could ever have imagined. But if you carry it for too long, it starts to wear you down. And then you're left at rock bottom on the balcony railing, wondering why you can't find it in you to get away from the ledge.

Forgiveness is tough, too. It's tougher than trying to get away from the ledge. It's tougher than hitting rock bottom and it can hurt more than the moment that you realize that you've become so weak that something as black and ugly as hatred has overpowered you. And forgiving the last ten years is going to take a while. A _long_ while. Longer than ten years. Not an easy road at all.

There's no real way for me to tell where that road might end, but I can at least _guess_ at where it starts. It starts in the parlor, at the seat of the grand piano. I blow on the dust and press a finger to a key. The sound plucks at an old and distant memory. For just a moment, I can see her there. Mother. Smiling beside me, her fingers gliding quickly across the keys.

Inhale. Keep going, Ambriella. Breathe. In. Out. Good girl.

Now play.

Keep playing.

Keep breathing. In. Out. Good girl.

Now _live_.

`.

The song she plays: Child of Light OST- Pilgrims on a Long Journey: watch?v=u3o5YtTPvJ0


	29. Chapter 29

_**Prince Rainier**_

It's midafternoon when I get the wake-up call. Late nights by the window isn't something I should be making a routine. Midafternoon and I am hit upside the head. I open my eyes and look up. Father is standing over me. I look around for what it is he's hit me with. A half-eaten apple is on the sheets.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Look out your window," he says.

"I do," I say. "All the time."

"Obviously not as recently as I have though," Father says, picking up his apple and slouching out the door. I frown at him and sit up further. What was that all about?

Now that I'm awake there's no point trying to fall back asleep. It's already late in the day. I get cleaned up and dressed, then head downstairs. The cook is starting to hate me. This new sleeping pattern means that my breakfast gets served later. I'll have to try and get to sleep earlier at night so I don't make the lady want to kill me.

It's when I pass one of the windows that I see it. Or rather _her. _I pause, turning back and peering through the glass. There she is, clear as day, wondering through the garden.

I don't feel so hungry anymore.

I dash out into the flowers, hurrying up the path. I sincerely hope this isn't some sort of trick of the mind. I've had too many of those already.

"I hate orchids, you know," she says when she senses me near her.

I frown at the orchid bush she's staring at. "Really? But you said they were your favorite."

"I wanted to upset you," she says. "Because they were the only flower I couldn't see here and I wanted to get under your skin."

"Well, you didn't need the orchids to do that," I tell her.

She seems like she might almost smile. I hold out my arm. She takes it without hesitating and we proceed up the path. She doesn't feel the same. Her eyes are still tired and her skin is still pallid, but there's something here within her that seems to have blossomed.

"So if orchids were not the ones, than what is?" I ask.

"You'll laugh," she tells me.

"No, I won't."

"Yes, you will."

"No, I won't."

"You'll laugh me out the _door_."

"I promise I won't."

She bends down beside the cherry blossom tree and picks a buttercup from the grass. She holds it out for me to see. I'm sort of floored. We don't even _plant_ buttercups in this garden. They're so common and simple that they just grow here on their own.

"This one seems more like you," I say. She leans against the tree, watching the petals flutter in the breeze.

"I need you to do something for me," she says.

"What do you need?" I ask.

"I need you to place someone in the Allendale line of succession," she says. "Someone who is not an Allendale."

"Carve someone into the family tree?" I ask. "I can do that. Who?"

"Edward Finchley," she says.

"The coal boy?"

"My friend. Royce Manor needs to go to someone. It has to stay in the family…but I don't want it anymore. I'll never stop seeing it the way I do now. But maybe someone else might have better luck with it."

Recognize a legal adoption into an ancient noble house. I can do that. And for a moment, I pause and turn to ask her where _she_ is planning to go, but then I see her eyes. That's what's changed. Her skin is pallid and she has bags but her eyes are sparkling as bright and exhilarating as the day I first saw them and they make me shiver the way they did the first time and I smile because I know exactly where she's planning to go.


	30. Chapter 30

_** Edward**_

_**One Year Later**_

Christmas at the Royal Palace is no small occasion. Every single inch of the palace is covered in colors and lights and the air smells like honey and chocolate. My clothes are itchy, but they're festive so I don't complain.

I still haven't gotten used to people bowing when I walk by. It makes me cringe just the same as it did a year ago when Mister Rainier handed me the key to Royce Manor.

Miss Ambriella is in the Red Parlor by the fireplace, reading a letter close to the light. Her gown is of fine red satin, making her look like one of those fairies from the books. She doesn't smile until she's seen me.

"Edward!" she holds out her arms and gathers me close to her. She smells of strawberries and the sea. It's a nice smell. "I've missed you! Look at how tall you've gotten!"

"I've swears I've grown four inches since you saw me last," I tell her.

I'd have let her kiss my cheek, but Mister Rainier has just walked in and I think it's beneath my dignity to be kissed in front of peoples. Just a matter of principles is all.

"Happy Christmas, Edward," Mister Rainier says, tossing me a carefully wrapped chocolate turtle. "How's Amonta town?"

"Festive," I tell him. Miss Ambriella sits me down beside her and runs her fingers through my hair. I love when she does this. It feels like when Mama used to do it.

"I wrote you a song," she tells me. "I'll play it for you later. Tell me you haven't eaten yet."

"I haven't."

"Good boy. We'll be dining shortly. Rainier, could you—"

And we both pause, looking to the other side of the room, where Mister Rainier has found his reflection. The prince has a minor addiction to reflective surfaces. I suppose in the castle it's no real trouble, but when Miss Ambriella and I are taking him through the market and he pauses to check his hair on the back of a spoon, it really slows us down. Tonight it's one of the ornamental baubles on a holiday tree in the corner. He's fixing his hair idly, taking his time.

"That man is a princess," I say quietly.

"Yes, well, he's _my _princess," Miss Ambriella says back. "Come on—why don't I just play you that song now instead?"

_-end-_


End file.
